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EDWARDH 
HAMILTON 


THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 
OF  CALIFORNIA 

GUT  OF 

Mrs.    Lawrence  draper  Jr. 


Turgenev 


SHORT   STORY 
CLASSICS 


VOLUME  ONE 
RUSSIAN 


EDITED    BY 

William   Patten 

WITH 

AN    INTRODUCTION 
AND    NOTES 


P.  F.  COLLIER  &  SON 
NEW  YORK 


COPYRIGHT  1907 
BY  P.  F.  COLLIER  &  SON 

The    use   of  the    copyrighted    translations   in   this 

collection    has    been     authorized    by    the 

authors  or  their  representatives.     The 

translations    made  especially  for 

this  collection  are  covered 

by    the    general 

copyright 


LOAN  STACK 


GIFT 


CONTENTS— VOLUME    I 

v.l 

PAGK 

THE  QUEEN    OF   SPADES 

ALEXANDER  SERGEIEVITCH  POUSHKIN 3 

THE   CLOAK 

NIKOLAI  VASILIEVITCH  GOGOL 21 

THE   RENDEZVOUS 

IVAN  TURGENEV 67 

THE   COUNTING-HOUSE 

IVAN  TURGENEV 81 

THE   THIEF 

FEODOR  MIKAILOVITCH  DOSTOIEVSKI 109 

THE   LONG   EXILE 

COUNT  LEO  NIKOLAIEVITCH  TOLSTOI 137 

EASTER    NIGHT 

VLADIMIR  GALAKTIONOVITCH  KOROLENKO 153 

THE   SIGNAL 

VSEVOLOD  MIKAILOVITCH  GARSHIN 165 

THE   CURSE   OF  FAME 

IGNATIY  NIKOLAIEVITCH  POTAPENKO 183 

A  WORK  OF   ART 

ANTON  PAVLOVITCH  CHEKHOV 217 

THE   SLANDERER 

ANTON  PAVLOVITCH  CHEKHOV 223 

FAUST 

EUGENE  NIKOLAIEVITCH  CHIRIKOV... 231 

THE  DUEL 

NIKOLAI  DMITRIEVITCH  TELESHOV 263 

BOLESS 

ALEXEI     MAXIMOVITCH      PYESHKOV      (MAXIM 
GORKI) 273 

THE  LOVE  OF  A   SCENE-PAINTER 

"SKITALITZ" »_.....  285 

VALIA 

LEONID  ANDREIEV 309 

I— VOL.    I 


289 


CONTENTS— VOLUME    II 

ITALIAN 

THE   LOST  LETTER  *AOE 

ENRICO    CASTELNUOVO 329 

CAVALLERIA   RUSTICANA 

GIOVANNI    VERGA 347 

THE   SILVER    CRUCIFIX 

ANTONIO    FOGAZZARO 359 

THE   LITTLE    SARDINIAN   DRUMMER 

EDMONDO  DE  AMICIS 375 

LULU'S   TRIUMPH 

MATILDA  SERAO 387 

THE   END   OF    CANDIA 

GABRIELE    D'ANNUNZIO 411 

SIGNORA   SPERANZA 

LUIGI  PIRANDELLO 427 

TWO   MEN   AND   A   WOMAN 

GRAZIA  DELEDDA 481 

SCANDINA  VIAN 
RAILROAD   AND    CHURCHYARD 

BjORNSTJERNE     BjORNSON 5H 

BJORN    SIVERTSEN'S   WEDDING  TRIP 

HOLGER  DRACHMANN 547 

JALO  THE  TROTTER 

JOHANN  JACOB  AHRENBERG 567 

THE   PLAGUE  AT   BERGAMO 

JENS  PETER  JACOBSEN 583 


CONTENTS  iii 

PAGE 

KAREN 

ALEXANDER  LANGE  KIELLAND 595 

LOVE  AND  BREAD 

JEAN  AUGUST  STRINDBERG ijt»«> 605 

IRENE  HOLM 

HERMANN  JOACHIM  BANG 619 

THE  OUTLAWS 

SELMA  LAGERLOF 637 


CONTENTS— VOLUME   III 


THE  BROKEN  CUP 

JOHANN  HEINRICH  DANIEL  ZSCHOKKE 663 

CASTLE   NEIDECK 

WILHELM  HEINRICH  VON  RIEHL 691 

THE  YOUNG  GIRL  OF  TREPPI 

PAUL  JOHANN  LUDWIG  HEYSE 739 

THE   STONEBREAKERS 

FERDINAND  VON   SAAR 793 

THOU   SHALT   NOT   KILL 

LEOPOLD  VON   SACHER-MASOCH 839 

THE  FOUNTAIN   OF  YOUTH 

RUDOLF  BAUMBACH 849 

GOOD   BLOOD 

ERNST  VON  WILDENBRUCH 863 

DELIVERANCE 

MAX  SIMON  NORDAU 903 

A  NEW-YEAR'S   EVE  CONFESSION 

HERMANN  SUDERMANN 917 

BRIC-A-BRAC  AND   DESTINIES 

GABRIELE   REUTER 929 

THE  FUR  COAT 

LUDWIG    FULDA 939 

THE  DEAD  ARE  SILENT 

ARTHUR  SCHNITZLER. 955 

MARGRET'S   PILGRIMAGE 

CLARA  VIEBIG ; 981 


CONTENTS— VOLUME   IV 


THE  UNKNOWN   MASTERPIECE 

HONORE  DE  BALZAC 1007 

THE   PRICE   OF  A  LIFE 

AUGUSTIN  EUGENE  SCRIBE 1049 

NAPOLEON   AND    POPE   PIUS  VII 

ALFRED  VICTOR,  COMTE  DE  VIGNY 1067 

CLAUDE  GUEUX 

VICTOR  MARIE  HUGO 1083 

A    BAL   MASQUfe 

ALEXANDRE  DAVY  DE  LA  PAILLETERIE  DUMAS..  1105 

HOW  THE  REDOUBT  WAS  TAKEN 

PROSPER  MERIMEE 1121 

THE  VENDEAN  MARRIAGE 

JULES  GABRIEL  JANIN... 1131 

THE  MARQUISE 

GEORGE  SAND 1149 

THE   BEAUTY-SPOT 

ALFRED  Louis  CHARLES  DE  MUSSET 1185 

THE   MUMMY'S  FOOT 

THEOPHILE   GAUTIER 1237 

CIRCfe 

OCTAVE  FEUILLET 1257 

THE  HANGING  AT  LA   PIROCHE 

ALEXANDRE  DUMAS,  FILS 1269 

THE  DEAN'S  WATCH 

ERCKMANN-CHATRIAN 1289 

AT  THE   PALAIS  DE  JUSTICE 

ALPHONSE  DAUDET 1319 

BOUM-BOUM 

JULES  CLARETIE 132? 


CONTENTS— VOLUME   V 


LA  BRETONNE 

ANDRE  THEURIET 1339 

WHICH   WAS   THE   MADMAN? 

EDMOND  ABOUT 1349 

THE   GRAND   MARRIAGE 
LUDOVIC  HALEVY 

THE  ACCURSED   HOUSE 
I-CMILE   GABORIAU 

THE  FETE,  AT   COQUEVILLE 

EMILE  ZOLA 1427 

THE   LOST   CHILD 

FRANCOIS  COPPEE 1471 

PUTOIS 

ANATOLE  FRANCE 1495 

SAC-AU-DOS 

JORIS   KARL   HUYSMANS 1515 

"BONJOUR,  MONSIEUR" 

JEAN    RICHEPIN 1559 

THE  BIT  OF  STRING 

GUY  DE  MAUPASSANT... 1571 

THE   NECKLACE 

GUY  DE  MAUPASSANT 1581 

THE  WALL   OPPOSITE 

PIERRE  LOTI 1595 

THE  ANCESTOR 

PAUL   BOURGET 1605 

WHEN  HE  WAS   A  LITTLE  BOY 

HENRI  LAVEDAN 1639 

A  GENTLEMAN  FINDS    A   WATCH 

GEORGES  COURTELINE 1651 

A  YOUNG  GIRL'S  DIARY 

MARCEL  PREVOST 1659 

THE  SIGN  OF  THE  KEY  AND  THE  CROSS 

HENRI  DE  REGNIER 1671 

THE  TELEGRAPH  OPERATOR 

ALPHONSE  ALLAIS 1685 


PREFACE 

YfTHEN    the    five-volume    collection    known    as 
\f\f    "Short  Story  Classics  (American)"  was  planned, 
it  was  entirely  evident  that  it  should  be  sup- 
plemented by  a  collection  of  the  best  examples  of  the 
short  story  to  be  found  in  foreign  literatures. 

The  five  volumes  now  offered  to  the  public  are  de- 
signed to  supply  this  lack.  They  contain  seventy-eight 
short  stories,  chosen  from  the  literatures  of  France,  Rus- 
sia, Germany,  Italy,  Norway,  Sweden,  Denmark,  and 
Finland — works  of  importance  that  have  made  their 
mark  in  the  literary  world. 

The  aim  has  been  not  only  to  represent  the  most 
widely  sympathetic  writers,  but  to  select  their  most 
generally  interesting  as  well  as  characteristic  stories. 
The  stories  have  all  been  written  within  the  last  seventy- 
five  years,  which  has  this  advantage  for  the  reader,  that 
the  scope  of  the  collection  may  be  said  to  lie  within 
present-day  interests. 

None  of  the  stories  by  the  following  authors  appear 
in  any  other  collection: 

FRENCH 

Honor  e  de  Balzac,  Eugene  Scribe,  Alfred  de  Vigny, 
Victor  Hugo,  Alexandre  Dumas,  Prosper  Merimee,  Jules 
Janin,  George  Sand,  Alfred  de  Musset,  Theophile  Gau- 
tier,  Octave  Feuillet,  Alexandre  Dumas  (Fils),  Erck- 
mann-Chatrian,  Alphonse  Daudet,  Andre  Theuriett 
Ludovic  Halevy,  Emile  Gaboriau,  Emile  Zola,  Jules 


vn 


viii  PREFACE 

Claretie,  Frangois  Coppee,  Anatole  France,  Joris  Karl 
Huysmans,  Jean  Richepin,  Pierre  Loti,  Paul  Bourget, 
Henri  de  Regnier,  Henri  Lavedan,  Marcel  Prevosl, 
Georges  Courteline,  Alphonse  Allais. 

RUSSIAN 

Poushkin,  Gogol,  Turgenev,  Dostoievski,  Tolstoi,  Koro- 
lenko,  Garshin,  Potapenko,  Chekhov,  Chirikov,  Teleshov, 
Maxim  Gorki,  "Skitalitz,"  Andreiev. 

ITALIAN  AND  SCANDINAVIAN 
Enrico  Castelnuovo,  Giovanni  Verga,  Antonio  Fogaz- 
zaro,  Edmondo  de  Amicis,  Matilda  Serao,  Gabriele 
'd'Annunsio,  Luigi  Pirandello,  Grazia  Deledda>  Bjornson, 
Holger  Drachmann,  Jacob  Ahrenberg,  Jens  Peter  Jacob- 
sen,  Alexander  Kielland,  August  Strindberg,  Hermann 
Bang,  Selma  Lagerlof. 

GERMAN 

Heinrich  Zschokke,  Wilhelm  Heinrich  von  Riehl,  Paul 
Heyse,  Ferdinand  von  Saar,  Leopold  von  Sacher-Masoch, 
Rudolf  Baumbach,  Ernst  von  Wildenbruch,  Max  Nor- 
dau,  Hermann  Sudermann,  Gabriele  Renter,  Ludwig 
Fulda,  Arthur  Schnitzler,  and  Clara  Viebig. 

About  half  of  the  stories  have  been  especially  trans- 
lated for  this  collection,  and  some  of  them  now  appear 
in  English  for  the  first  time.  Among  these  will  be  found 
some  by  the  more  recent  writers  in  Germany  and  Rus- 
sia, two  very  interesting  groups  of  moderns  whose  work 
has  not  received  as  much  attention  at  the  hands  of  the 
public  as  it  would  seem  to  merit. 

In  only  two  or  three  cases,  where  the  point  of  view 
was  likely  to  fail  of  appreciation  by  American  readers, 


PREFACE  ix 

have  the  stories  been  abbreviated  or  otherwise  altered; 
and  attention  has  been  called  to  this  in  the  accompanying 
note. 

The  notes  which  preceded  the  stories  in  "Short  Story 
Classics  (American)"  proved  to  be  an  appreciated  and 
even  popular  feature,  and  it  is  hoped  that  those  written 
for  the  present  collection  may  prove  equally  acceptable. 

If  any  one  country  more  than  another  can  be  said  to 
excel  in  the  use  and  development  of  the  modern  short 
story  form,  it  is  France.  The  literatures  of  Russia,  Italy, 
Germany,  Norway,  Sweden,  and  Denmark,  as  well  as 
that  of  the  United  States,  have  all  been  influenced  to  a 
greater  or  lesser  extent  by  the  art  of  Balzac,  Gautiert 
'Merimee,  and  De  Maupassant,  for  in  France  short  story 
writing  may  be  said  to  be  based  on  a  theory  of  art,  and 
to  be,  consequently,  the  result  of  conviction. 

This  theory  of  art,  apart  from  the  questions  of  form 
which  it  involves,  in  themselves  important  considera- 
tions, affords  great  freedom  to  the  writer  in  the  choice 
of  subject-matter  and  the  method  of  treatment.  It  pre- 
supposes the  artist's  right  to  his  point  of  view.  It 
presupposes  an  audience  more  keenly  alive  to  life  and 
the  manifestations  of  life  than  is  characteristic  of  the 
general  reading  public  in  America  at  the  present  time. 
Generalisations  like  these  are  at  the  best  unsatisfactory, 
since  the  differences  alluded  to  must  be  apprehended  and 
can  not  be  well  expounded;  they  will  have  abundantly 
served  their  purpose  if  they  awaken  curiosity  and  prompt 
the  reader  unfamiliar  with  the  short  story  in  foreign 
literatures,  and  especially  in  the  literature  of  France f  to 
make  his  own  comparisons. 


x  PREFACE 

All  over  the  world  the  literary  main  current  seems  to 
be  toward  the  development  of  the  realism  of  twenty-five 
years  ago.  From  Denmark,  where  the  trace  is  slightest, 
to  Russia,  where  it  is  most  brutal,  the  best  work  is  ap~ 
parently  being  done  by  the  realists.  In  France  there  is 
a  decided  reaction  against  strenuous  realism,  but  it  is 
principally  the  reaction  of  a  few  individuals,  and  among 
these  the  most  prominent  is  Anatole  France.  He  is  not 
any  the  less  a  realist,  in  the  sense  of  being  true  to  nature, 
because  his  intelligence  is  concerned  with  an  appreciation 
of  something  else  besides  the  material  side  of  life. 

To  those  who  are  familiar  with  the  work  of  6mile 
Zola,  it  seems  desirable  to  explain  that  {{ Jacques  Da- 
mour,"  a  really  great  story,  was  too  long  to  be  included 
in  this  collection.  An  interesting  comparison  can  be 
made  between  "The  Bit  of  String,"  by  Guy  de  Maupas- 
sant, and  the  two  stories  which  it  inspired,  "The  Slan- 
derer," by  Anton  Chekhov,  and  "The  End  of  Candia," 
by  Gabriele  d'Annunzio. 

Even  the  most  casual  reader  must  surely  be  impressed 
with  the  extraordinary  vitality  of  these  stories  and  their 
likeness  to  life.  It  is  a  likeness  that  is  not  always  opti- 
mistic, it  is  true,  as  in  the  case  of  many  of  the  Russian 
writers,  for  example,  but  it  seldom  depends  on  a  mis- 
statement  of  the  facts  of  experience  to  create  its  effect, 
and  is  seldom  lacking  in  integrity  of  workmanship. 

I  am  glad  of  an  opportunity  to  record  my  apprecia- 
tion of  the  intelligent  and  interested  assistance  rendered 
by  Mr.  R.  W.  Howes  jd,  in  preparing  these  volumes  for 
the  press. 

William  Patten. 


THE   QUEEN   OF   SPADES 


BY   ALEXANDER   SERGEIEVITCH   POUSHKIN 


Alexander  Poushkin  (born  1799,  died  1837) 
was  the  greatest  genius  among  the  Russian 
poets.  Though  born  of  a  noble  family,  thick 
lips  and  crisp,  curly  hair  showed  his  descent 
from  an  Abyssinian  negro  slave  ancestor  on 
his  mother's  side.  As  a  poet  his  work  has 
been  compared  with  that  of  Byron,  of  which 
he  was  frankly  a  close  student.  Chronolog- 
ically he  comes  first  in  the  list  of  Russian 
prose  writers,  a  list  that  includes  Gogol, 
Turgenev,  Dostoievski,  and  Tolstoi.  "The 
Queen  of  Spades"  is  one  of  the  best  and 
most  characteristic  of  his  short  stories. 


THE    QUEEN    OF    SPADES 

BY   ALEXANDER    POUSHKIN 

A  the  house  of  Naroumov,  a  cavalry  officer,  the 
long  winter  night  had  been  passed  in  gam- 
bling. At  five  in  the  morning  breakfast  was 
served  to  the  weary  players.  The  winners  ate  with 
relish;  the  losers,  on  the  contrary,  pushed  back  their 
plates  and  sat  brooding  gloomily.  Under  the  influ- 
ence of  the  good  wine,  however,  the  conversation 
became  general. 

"Well,  Sourine  ?"  said  the  host  inquiringly. 

"Oh,  I  lost  as  usual.  My  luck  is  abominable.  No 
matter  how  cool  I  keep,  I  never  win." 

"How  is  it,  Herman,  that  you  never  touch  a  card?" 
remarked  one  of  the  men,  addressing  a  young  officer 
of  the  Engineering  Corps.  "Here  you  are  with  the 
rest  of  us  at  five  o'clock  in  the  morning,  and  you  have 
neither  played  nor  bet  all  night." 

"Play  interests  me  greatly/'  replied  the  person  ad- 
dressed, "but  I  hardly  care  to  sacrifice  the  necessaries 
of  life  for  uncertain  superfluities." 

"Herman  is  a  German,  therefore  economical;  that 
explains  it,"  said  Tomsky.  "But  the  person  I  can't 
quite  understand  is  my  grandmother,  the  Countess 
Anna  Fedorovna." 

"Why?"  inquired  a  chorus  of  voices. 

Translated  by  H.  Twitchell.  Copyright,  1901,  by  The  Current  Litera- 
ture Publishing  Company. 

(3) 


4:  ALEXANDER   POUSHKIN 

"I  can't  understand  why  my  grandmother  never 
gambles." 

"I  don't  see  anything  very  striking  in  the  fact  that 
a  woman  of  eighty  refuses  to  gamble,"  objected 
Naroumov. 

"Have  you  never  heard  her  story?" 

"No." 

"Well,  then,  listen  to  it.  To  begin  with,  sixty  years 
ago  my  grandmother  went  to  Paris,  where  she  was  all 
the  fashion.  People  crowded  each  other  in  the  streets 
to  get  a  chance  to  see  the  'Muscovite  Venus/  as  she 
was  called.  All  the  great  ladies  played  faro,  then. 
On  one  occasion,  while  playing  with  the  Duke  of 
Orleans,  she  lost  an  enormous  sum.  She  told  her 
husband  of  the  debt,  but  he  refused  outright  to  pay 
it.  Nothing  could  induce  him  to  change  his  mind  on 
the  subject,  and  grandmother  was  at  her  wits'  ends. 
Finally,  she  remembered  a  friend  of  hers,  Count  Saint- 
Germain.  You  must  have  heard  of  him,  as  many 
wonderful  stories  have  been  told  about  him.  He  is  said 
to  have  discovered  the  elixir  of  life,  the  philosopher's 
stone,  and  many  other  equally  marvelous  things.  He 
had  money  at  his  disposal,  and  my  grandmother 
knew  it.  She  sent  him  a  note  asking  him  to  come  to 
see  her.  He  obeyed  her  summons  and  found  her  in 
great  distress.  She  painted  the  cruelty  of  her  husband 
in  the  darkest  colors,  and  ended  by  telling  the  Count 
that  she  depended  upon  his  friendship  and  generosity. 

"  'I  could  lend  you  the  money,'  replied  the  Count, 
after  a  moment  of  thought  fulness,  'but  I  know  that 
you  would  not  enjoy  a  moment's  rest  until  you  had 


THE   QUEEN  OF   SPADES  5 

returned  it ;  it  would  only  add  to  your  embarrassment. 
There  is  another  way  of  freeing  yourself/ 

"  'But  I  have  no  money  at  all/  insisted  my  grand- 
mother. 

"  'There  is  no  need  of  money.    Listen  to  me.' 

"The  Count  then  told  her  a  secret  which  any  of  us 
would  give  a  good  deal  to  know." 

The  young  gamesters  were  all  attention.  Tomsky 
lit  his  pipe,  took  a  few  whiffs,  then  continued : 

"The  next  evening,  grandmother  appeared  at  Ver- 
sailles at  the  Queen's  gaming-table.  The  Duke  of 
Orleans  was  the  dealer.  Grandmother  made  some  ex- 
cuse for  not  having  brought  any  money,  and  began 
to  punt.  She  chose  three  cards  in  succession,  again 
and  again,  winning  every  time,  and  was  soon  out  of 
debt." 

"A  fable,"  remarked  Herman;  "perhaps  the  cards 
were  marked." 

"I  hardly  think  so,"  replied  Tomsky,  with  an  air  of 
importance. 

"So  you  have  a  grandmother  who  knows  three  win- 
ning cards,  and  you  haven't  found  out  the  magic 
secret." 

"I  must  say  I  have  not.  She  had  four  sons,  one  of 
them  being  my  father,  all  of  whom  are  devoted  to 
play;  she  never  told  the  secret  to  one  of  them.  But 
my  uncle  told  me  this  much,  on  his  word  of  honor. 
Tchaplitzky,  who  died  in  poverty  after  having  squan- 
dered millions,  lost  at  one  time,  at  play,  nearly  three 
hundred  thousand  rubles.  He  was  desperate  and 
grandmother  took  pity  on  him.  She  told  him  the 


6  ALEXANDER   POUSHKIN 

three  cards,  making  him  swear  never  to  use  them 
again.  He  returned  to  the  game,  staked  fifty  thou- 
sand rubles  on  each  card,  and  came  out  ahead,  after 
paying  his  debts." 

As  day  was  dawning  the  party  now  broke  up,  each 
one  draining  his  glass  and  taking  his  leave. 

The  Countess  Anna  Fedorovna  was  seated  before 
her  mirror  in  her  dressing-room.  Three  women  were 
assisting  at  her  toilet.  The  old  Countess  no  longer 
made  the  slightest  pretensions  to  beauty,  but  she  still 
clung  to  all  the  habits  of  her  youth,  and  spent  as  much 
time  at  her  toilet  as  she  had  done  sixty  years  before. 
'At  the  window  a  young  girl,  her  ward,  sat  at  her 
needle-work. 

"Good  afternoon,  grandmother,"  cried  a  young  offi- 
cer, who  had  just  entered  the  room.  "I  have  come  to 
ask  a  favor  of  you." 

"What,  Pavel?" 

"I  want  to  be  allowed  to  present  one  of  my  friends 
to  you,  and  to  take  you  to  the  ball  on  Tuesday  night." 

"Take  me  to  the  ball  and  present  him  to  me  there." 

After  a  few  more  remarks  the  officer  walked  up  to 
the  window  where  Lisaveta  Ivanovna  sat. 

"Whom  do  you  wish  to  present?"  asked  the  girl. 

"Naroumov ;  do  you  know  him  ?" 

"No;  is  he  a  soldier?" 

"Yes." 

"An  engineer?" 

"No;  why  do  you  ask?" 

The  girl  smiled  and  made  no  reply. 


THE  QUEEN  OF   SPADES  T 

Pavel  Tomsky  took  his  leave,  and,  left  to  herself, 
Lisaveta  glanced  out  of  the  window.  Soon,  a  young 
officer  appeared  at  the  corner  of  the  street;  the  girl 
blushed  and  bent  her  head  low  over  her  canvas. 

This  appearance  of  the  officer  had  become  a  daily 
occurrence.  The  man  was  totally  unknown  to  her, 
and  as  she  was  not  accustomed  to  coquetting  with  the 
soldiers  she  saw  on  the  street,  she  hardly  knew  how 
to  explain  his  presence.  His  persistence  finally  roused 
an  interest  entirely  strange  to  her.  One  day,  she  even 
ventured  to  smile  upon  her  admirer,  for  such  he  seemed 
to  be. 

The  reader  need  hardly  be  told  that  the  officer  was 
no  other  than  Herman,  the  would-be  gambler,  whose 
imagination  had  been  strongly  excited  by  the  story 
told  by  Tomsky  of  the  three  magic  cards. 

"Ah,"  he  thought,  "if  the  old  Countess  would  only 
reveal  the  secret  to  me.  Why  not  try  to  win  her 
good-will  and  appeal  to  her  sympathy?" 

With  this  idea  in  mind,  he  took  up  his  daily  station 
before  the  house,  watching  the  pretty  face  at  the  win- 
dow, and  trusting  to  fate  to  'bring  about  the  desired 
acquaintance. 

One  day,  as  Lisaveta  was  standing  on  the  pavement 
about  to  enter  the  carriage  after  the  Countess,  she  felt 
herself  jostled  and  a  note  was  thrust  into  her  hand. 
Turning,  she  saw  the  young  officer  at  her  elbow.  As 
quick  as  thought,  she  put  the  note  in  her  glove  and 
entered  the  carriage.  On  her  return  from  the  drive, 
she  hastened  to  her  chamber  to  read  the  missive, 
in  a  state  of  excitement  mingled  with  fear.  It  was 


8  ALEXANDER   POUSHKIN 

a  tender  and  respectful  declaration  of  affection,  copied 
word  for  word  from  a  German  novel.  Of  this  fact, 
Lisa  was,  of  course,  ignorant. 

The  young  girl  was  much  impressed  by  the  missive, 
but  she  felt  that  the  writer  must  not  be  encouraged. 
She  therefore  wrote  a  few  lines  of  explanation  and, 
at  the  first  opportunity,  dropped  it,  with  the  letter,  out 
of  the  window.  The  officer  hastily  crossed  the  street, 
picked  up  the  papers  and  entered  a  shop  to  read 
them. 

In  no  wise  daunted  by  this  rebuff,  he  found  the 
opportunity  to  send  her  another  note  in  a  few  days. 
He  received  no  reply,  but,  evidently  understandjng 
the  female  heart,  he  persevered,  begging  for  an  inter- 
view. He  was  rewarded  at  last  by  the  following : 

"To-night  we  go  to  the  ambassador's  ball.  We 
shall  remain  until  two  o'clock.  I  can  arrange  for  a 
meeting  in  this  way.  After  our  departure,  the  ser- 
vants will  probably  all  go  out,  or  go  to  sleep.  At  half- 
past  eleven  enter  the  vestibule  boldly,  and  if  you  see 
any  one,  inquire  for  the  Countess;  if  not,  ascend  the 
stairs,  turn  to  the  left  and  go  on  until  you  come  to 
a  door,  which  opens  into  her  bedchamber.  Enter  this 
room  and  behind  a  screen  you  will  find  another  door 
leading  to  a  corridor ;  from  this  a  spiral  staircase  leads 
to  my  sitting-room.  I  shall  expect  to  find  you  there 
on  my  return." 

Herman  trembled  like  a  leaf  as  the  appointed  hour 
drew  near.  He  obeyed  instructions  fully,  and,  as  he 
met  no  one,  he  reached  the  old  lady's  bed-chamber 
without  difficulty.  Instead  of  going  out  of  the  small 


THE   QUEEN   OF   SPADES  9 

door  behind  the  screen,  however,  he  concealed  himself 
in  a  closet  to  await  the  return  of  the  old  Countess. 

The  hours  dragged  slowly  by;  at  last  he  heard  the 
sound  of  wheels.  Immediately  lamps  were  lighted  and 
servants  began  moving  about.  Finally  the  old  woman 
tottered  into  the  room,  completely  exhausted.  Her 
women  removed  her  wraps  and  proceeded  to  get  her 
in  readiness  for  the  night.  Herman  watched  the  pro- 
ceedings with  a  curiosity  not  unmingled  with  super- 
stitious fear.  When  at  last  she  was  attired  in  cap  and 
gown,  the  old  woman  looked  less  uncanny  than  when 
she  wore  her  ball-dress  of  blue  brocade. 

She  sat  down  in  an  easy  chair  beside  a  table,  as  she 
was  in  the  habit  of  doing  before  retiring,  and  her 
women  withdrew.  As  the  old  lady  sat  swaying  to  and 
fro,  seemingly  oblivious  to  her  surroundings,  Herman 
crept  out  of  his  hiding-place. 

At  the  slight  noise  the  old  woman  opened  her 
eyes,  and  gazed  at  the  intruder  with  a  half -dazed 
expression. 

"Have  no  fear,  I  beg  of  you,"  said  Herman,  in  a 
calm  voice.  "I  have  not  come  to  harm  you,  but  to  ask 
a  favor  of  you  instead. " 

The  Countess  looked  at  him  in  silence,  seemingly 
without  comprehending  him.  Herman  thought  she 
might  be  deaf,  so  he  put  his  lips  close  to  her  ear  and 
repeated  his  remark.  The  listener  remained  perfectly 
mute. 

"You  could  make  my  fortune  without  its  costing  you 
anything,"  pleaded  the  young  man ;  "only  tell  me  the 
three  cards  which  are  sure  to  win,  and — " 


10  ALEXANDER   POUSHKIN 

Herman  paused  as  the  old  woman  opened  her  lips 
as  if  about  to  speak. 

"It  was  only  a  jest;  I  swear  to  you,  it  was  only  a 
jest/'  came  from  the  withered  lips. 

"There  was  no  jesting  about  it.  Remember  Tchap- 
litzky,  who,  thanks  to  you,  was  able  to  pay  his  debts." 

An  expression  of  interior  agitation  passed  over  the 
face  of  the  old  woman;  then  she  relapsed  into  her 
former  apathy. 

"Will  you  tell  me  the  names  of  the  magic  cards,  or 
not?"  asked  Herman  after  a  pause. 

There  was  no  reply. 

The  young  man  then  drew  a  pistol  from  his  pocket, 
exclaiming :  "You  old  witch,  I'll  force  you  to  tell  me !" 

At  the  sight  of  the  weapon  the  Countess  gave  a 
second  sign  of  life.  She  threw  back  her  head  and  put 
out  her  hands  as  if  to  protect  herself;  then  they  dropped 
and  she  sat  motionless. 

Herman  grasped  her  arm  roughly,  and  was  about  to 
renew  his  threats,  when  he  saw  that  she  was  dead ! 

Seated  in  her  room,  still  in  her  ball-dress,  Lisaveta 
gave  herself  up  to  her  reflections.  She  had  expected 
to  find  the  young  officer  there,  but  she  felt  relieved  to 
see  that  he  was  not 

Strangely  enough,  that  very  night  at  the  ball,  Tom- 
sky  had  rallied  her  about  her  preference  for  the  young 
officer,  assuring  her  that  he  knew  more  than  she  sup- 
posed he  did. 

"Of  whom  are  you  speaking?"  she  had  asked  in 
alarm,  fearing  her  adventure  had  been  discovered. 


THE  QUEEN  OF   SPADES  11 

"Of  the  remarkable  man/'  was  the  reply*  "His 
name  is  Herman. " 

Lisa  made  no  reply. 

"This  Herman,"  continued  Tomsky,  "is  a  romantic 
character;  he  has  the  profile  of  a  Napoleon  and  the 
heart  of  a  Mephistopheles.  It  is  said  he  has  at  least 
three  crimes  on  his  conscience.  But  how  pale  you  are." 

"It  is  only  a  slight  headache.  But  why  do  you  talk 
to  me  of  this  Herman  ?" 

"Because  I  believe  he  has  serious  intentions  con- 
cerning you." 

"Where  has  he  seen  me?" 

"At  church,  perhaps,  or  on  the  street." 

The  conversation  was  interrupted  at  this  point,  to 
the  great  regret  of  the  young  girl.  The  words  of 
Tomsky  made  a  deep  impression  upon  her,  and  she 
realized  how  imprudently  she  had  acted.  She  was 
thinking  of  all  this  and  a  great  deal  more  when  the 
door  of  her  apartment  suddenly  opened,  and  Herman 
stood  before  her.  She  drew  back  at  sight  of  him, 
trembling  violently. 

"Where  have  you  been  ?"  she  asked  in  a  frightened 
whisper. 

"In  the  bed-chamber  of  the  Countess.  She  is  dead," 
was  the  calm  reply. 

"My  God!    What  are  you  saying?"  cried  the  girl. 

"Furthermore,  I  believe  that  I  was  the  cause  of  her 
death." 

The  words  of  Tomsky  flashed  through  Lisa's  mind. 

Herman  sat  down  and  told  her  all.  She  listened 
with  a  feeling  of  terror  and  disgust.  So  those  passion- 


12  ALEXANDER   POUSHKIN 

ate  letters,  that  audacious  pursuit  were  not  the  result 
of  tenderness  and  love.  It  was  money  that  he  desired. 
The  poor  girl  felt  that  she  had  in  a  sense  been  an  ac- 
complice in  the  death  of  her  benefactress.  She  began 
to  weep  bitterly.  Herman  regarded  her  in  silence. 

"You  are  a  monster!"  exclaimed  Lisa,  drying  her 
eyes. 

"I  didn't  intend  to  kill  her;  the  pistol  was  not  even 
loaded." 

"How  are  you  going  to  get  out  of  the  house?"  in- 
quired Lisa.  "It  is  nearly  daylight.  I  intended  to 
show  you  the  way  to  a  secret  staircase,  while  the 
Countess  was  asleep,  as  we  would  have  to  cross  her 
chamber.  Now  I  am  afraid  to  do  so." 

"Direct  me,  and  I  will  find  the  way  alone,"  replied 
Herman. 

She  gave  him  minute  instructions  and  a  key  with 
which  to  open  the  street  door.  The  young  man  pressed 
the  cold,  inert  hand,  then  went  out. 

The  death  of  the  Countess  had  surprised  no  one,  as 
it  had  long  been  expected.  Her  funeral  was  attended 
by  every  one  of  note  in  the  vicinity.  Herman  mingled 
with  the  throng  without  attracting  any  especial  atten- 
tion. After  all  the  friends  had  taken  their  last  look  at 
the  dead  face,  the  young  man  approached  the  bier.  He 
prostrated  himself  on  the  cold  floor,  and  remained  mo- 
tionless for  a  long  time.  He  rose  at  last  with  a  face 
almost  as  pale  as  that  of  the  corpse  itself,  and  went 
up  the  steps  to  look  into  the  casket.  As  he  looked  down 
it  seemed  to  him  that  the  rigid  face  returned  his  glance 
mockingly,  closing  one  eye.  He  turned  abruptly  away, 


THE   QUEEN   OF   SPADES  18 

made  a  false  step,  and  fell  to  the  floor.  He  was  picked 
up,  and,  at  the  same  moment,  Lisaveta  was  carried  out 
in  a  faint. 

Herman  did  not  recover  his  usual  composure  during 
the  entire  day.  He  dined  alone  at  an  out-of-the-way 
restaurant,  and  drank  a  great  deal,  in  the  hope  of  sti- 
fling his  emotion.  The  wine  only  served  to  stimulate 
his  imagination.  He  returned  home  and  threw  himself 
down  on  his  bed  without  undressing. 

During  the  night  he  awoke  with  a  start;  the  moon 
shone  into  his  chamber,  making  everything  plainly  vis- 
ible. Some  one  looked  in  at  the  window,  then  quickly 
disappeared.  He  paid  no  attention  to  this,  but  soon 
he  heard  the  vestibule  door  open.  He  thought  it  was 
his  orderly,  returning  late,  drunk  as  usual.  The  step 
was  an  unfamiliar  one,  and  he  heard  the  shuffling 
sound  of  loose  slippers. 

The  door  of  his  room  opened,  and  a  woman  in  white 
entered.  She  came  close  to  the  bed,  and  the  terrified 
man  recognized  the  Countess. 

"I  have  come  to  you  against  my  will,"  she  said 
abruptly;  "but  I  was  commanded  to  grant  your  re- 
quest. The  tray,  seven,  and  ace  in  succession  are  the 
magic  cards.  Twenty-four  hours  must  elapse  between 
the  use  of  each  card,  and  after  the  three  have  been 
used  you  must  never  play  again." 

The  fantom  then  turned  and  walked  away.  Her- 
man heard  the  outside  door  close,  and  again  saw  the 
form  pass  the  window. 

He  rose  and  went  out  into  the  hall,  where  his  orderly 
lay  asleep  on  the  floor.  The  door  was  closed.  Find- 


14  ALEXANDER   POUSHKIN 

ing  no  trace  of  a  visitor,  he  returned  to  his  room,  lit 
his  candle,  and  wrote  down  what  he  had  just  heard. 

Two  fixed  ideas  can  not  exist  in  the  brain  at  the 
same  time  any  more  than  two  bodies  can  occupy  the 
same  point  in  space.  The  tray,  seven,  and  ace  soon 
chased  away  the  thoughts  of  the  dead  woman,  and  all 
other  thoughts  from  the  brain  of  the  young  officer. 
All  his  ideas  merged  into  a  single  one:  how  to  turn 
to  advantage  the  secret  paid  for  so  dearly.  He  even 
thought  of  resigning  his  commission  and  going  to  Paris 
to  force  a  fortune  from  conquered  fate.  Chance  res- 
cued him  from  his  embarrassment. 

Tchekalinsky,  a  man  who  had  passed  his  whole  life 
at  cards,  opened  a  club  at  St.  Petersburg.  His  long 
experience  secured  for  him  the  confidence  of  his  com- 
panions, and  his  hospitality  and  genial  humor  concili- 
ated society. 

The  gilded  youth  flocked  around  him,  neglecting 
society,  preferring  the  charms  of  faro  to  those  of  their 
sweethearts.  Naroumov  invited  Herman  to  accom- 
pany him  to  the  club,  and  the  young  man  accepted  the 
invitation  only  too  willingly. 

The  two  officers  found  the  apartments  full.  Gen- 
erals and  statesmen  played  whist ;  young  men  lounged 
on  sofas,  eating  ices  or  smoking.  In  the  principal  salon 
stood  a  long  table,  at  which  about  twenty  men  sat  play- 
ing faro,  the  host  of  the  establishment  being  the  banker. 

He  was  a  man  of  about  sixty,  gray-haired  and  re- 
spectable. His  ruddy  face  shone  with  genial  humor; 
his  eyes  sparkled  and  a  constant  smile  hovered  around 
his  lips. 


THE  QUEEN  OF   SPADES  15 

Naroumov  presented  Herman.  The  host  gave  him 
a  cordial  handshake,  begged  him  not  to  stand  upon 
ceremony,  and  returned  to  his  dealing.  More  than 
thirty  cards  were  already  on  the  table.  Tchekalinsky 
paused  after  each  coup,  to  allow  the  punters  time  to 
recognize  their  gains  or  losses,  politely  answering  all 
questions  and  constantly  smiling. 

After  the  deal  was  over,  the  cards  were  shuffled  and 
the  game  began  again. 

"Permit  me  to  choose  a  card/'  said  Herman,  stretch- 
ing out  his  hand  over  the  head  of  a  portly  gentle- 
man, to  reach  a  livret.  The  banker  bowed  without 
replying. 

Herman  chose  a  card,  and  wrote  the  amount  of  his 
stake  upon  it  with  a  piece  of  chalk. 

"How  much  is  that?"  asked  the  banker;  "excuse  me, 
sir,  but  I  do  not  see  well." 

"Forty  thousand  rubles,"  said  Herman  coolly. 

All  eyes  were  instantly  turned  upon  the  speaker. 

"He  has  lost  his  wits,"  thought  Naroumov. 

"Allow  me  to  observe,"  said  Tchekalinsky,  with  his 
eternal  smile,  "that  your  stake  is  excessive." 

"What  of  it?"  replied  Herman,  nettled.  "Do  you 
accept  it  or  not?" 

The  banker  nodded  in  assent.  "I  have  only  to  re- 
mind you  that  the  cash  will  be  necessary;  of  course 
your  word  is  good,  but  in  order  to  keep  the  confidence 
of  my  patrons,  I  prefer  the  ready  money." 

Herman  took  a  bank-check  from  his  pocket  and 
handed  it  to  his  host.     The  latter  examined  it  atten- 
tively, then  laid  it  on  the  card  chosen. 
2— VOL.  i 


16  ALEXANDER   POUSHKIN 

He  began  dealing:  to  the  right,  a  nine;  to  the  left, 
a  tray. 

"The  tray  wins,"  said  Herman,  showing  the  card 
he  held — a  tray. 

A  murmur  ran  through  the  crowd.  Tchekalinsky 
frowned  for  a  second  only,  then  his  smile  returned. 
He  took  a  roll  of  bank-bills  from  his  pocket  and 
counted  out  the  required  sum.  Herman  received  it 
and  at  once  left  the  table. 

The  next  evening  saw  him  at  the  place  again.  Every 
one  eyed  him  curiously,  and  Tchekalinsky  greeted  him 
cordially. 

He  selected  his  card  and  placed  upon  it  his  fresh 
stake.  The  banker  began  dealing :  to  the  right,  a  nine  ; 
to  the  left,  a  seven. 

Herman  then  showed  his  card — a  seven  spot.  The 
onlookers  exclaimed,  and  the  host  was  visibly  dis- 
turbed. He  counted  out  ninety-four  thousand  rubles 
and  passed  them  to  Herman,  who  accepted  them  with- 
out showing  the  least  surprise,  and  at  once  withdrew. 

The  following  evening  he  went  again.  His  appear- 
ance was  the  signal  for  the  cessation  of  all  occupation, 
every  one  being  eager  to  watch  the  developments  of 
events.  He  selected  his  card — an  ace. 

The  dealing  began:  to  the  right,  a  queen;  to  the 
left,  an  ace. 

"The  ace  wins,"  remarked  Herman,  turning  up  his 
card  without  glancing  at  it. 

"Your  queen  is  killed,"  remarked  Tchekalinsky 
quietly. 

Herman  trembled;  looking  down,  he  saw,  not  the 


THE   QUEEN   OF   SPADES  17 

ace  he  had  selected,  but  the  queen  of  spades.  He 
could  scarcely  believe  his  eyes.  It  seemed  impossible 
that  he  could  have  made  such  a  mistake.  As  he  stared 
at  the  card  it  seemed  to  him  that  the  queen  winked  one 
eye  at  him  mockingly. 

"The  old  woman!"  he  exclaimed  involuntarily. 

The  croupier  raked  in  the  money  while  he  looked  on 
in  stupid  terror.  When  he  left  the  table,  all  made  way 
for  him  to  pass ;  the  cards  were  shuffled,  and  the  gam- 
bling went  on. 

Herman  became  a  lunatic.  He  was  confined  at  the 
hospital  at  Oboukov,  where  he  spoke  to  no  one,  but 
kept  constantly  murmuring  in  a  monotonous  tone: 
"The  tray,  seven,  ace!  The  tray,  seven,  queen!" 


THE    CLOAK 


BY   NIKOLAI   VASILIEVITCH   GOGOL 


The  naturalistic  movement,  which  took  its 
rise  in  France  with  Balzac  and  Merimee,  was 
represented  in  Russia  by  Gogol  (born  1809, 
died  1852),  who  has  been  called  the  true 
founder  of  the  Russian  school  of  fiction.  He 
undoubtedly  derived  some  inspiration  from 
the  romantic  Poushkin,  but,  unlike  Poushkin, 
he  was  of  Cossack  origin — that  is,  not  pure 
Russian;  he  was  born  in  Southwestern  Russia, 
on  the  borders  of  Poland.  His  writings  have 
exerted  a  great  influence  on  both  French  and 
Russian  writers.  Zola  frankly  confesses  him 
as  his  master,  and  Turgenev  has  said:  "We 
all  came  from  Gogol's  'Cloak.'"  Over  and 
above  the  constant  observation  of  life  on 
which  his  work  is  based,  and  the  remarkable 
ability  he  possessed  to  present  his  facts  in  a 
simple,  natural  manner,  there  is  always  the 
understanding  and  sympathy  of  a  big-hearted 
man  of  the  people. 


THE      CLOAK 

BY   NIKOLAI    GOGOL 

IN  the  department  of — but  it  is  better  not  to 
mention  the  department.  There  is  nothing  more 
irritable  than  departments,  regiments,  courts  of 
justice,  and,  in  a  word,  every  branch  of  public  service. 
Each  individual  attached  to  them  nowadays  thinks  all 
society  insulted  in  his  person.  Quite  recently  a  com- 
plaint was  received  from  a  justice  of  the  peace,  in 
which  he  plainly  demonstrated  that  all  the  imperial 
institutions  were  going  to  the  dogs,  and  that  the  Czar's 
sacred  name  was  being  taken  in  vain ;  and  in  proof  he 
appended  to  the  complaint  a  romance,  in  which  the 
justice  of  the  peace  is  made  to  appear  about  once  in 
every  ten  lines,  and  sometimes  in  a  drunken  condition. 
Therefore,  in  order  to  avoid  all  unpleasantness,  it  will 
be  better  to  designate  the  department  in  question  as  a 
certain  department. 

So,  in  a  certain  department  there  was  a  certain 
official — not  a  very  high  one,  it  must  be  allowed — 
short  of  stature,  somewhat  pock-marked,  red-haired, 
and  short-sighted,  with  a  bald  forehead,  wrinkled 
cheeks,  and  a  complexion  of  the  kind  known  as  san- 
guine. The  St.  Petersburg  climate  was  responsible 
for  this.  As  for  his  official  status,  he  was  what  is 
called  a  perpetual  titular  councilor,  over  which  some 
writers  make  merry  and  crack  their  jokes,  obeying  the 

(21) 


22  NIKOLAI   GOGOL 

praiseworthy  custom  of  attacking  those  who  can  not 
bite  back. 

His  family  name  was  Bashmatchkin.  This  name  is 
evidently  derived  from  bashmak  (shoe)  ;  but  when,  at 
what  time,  and  in  what  manner,  is  not  known.  His 
father  and  grandfather,  and  all  the  Bashmatchkins, 
always  wore  boots,  which  only  had  new  heels  two  or 
three  times  a  year.  His  -name  was  Akakiy  Akakie- 
vitch.  It  may  strike  the  reader  as  rather  singular  and 
far-fetched;  but  he  may  rest  assured  that  it  was  by 
no  means  far-fetched,  and  that  the  circumstances  were 
such  that  it  would  have  been  impossible  to  give  him 
any  other. 

This  was  how  it  came  about. 

Akakiy  Akakievitch  was  born,  if  my  memory  fails 
me  not,  in  the  evening  on  the  236.  of  March.  His 
mother,  the  wife  of  a  Government  official,  and  a  very 
fine  woman,  made  all  due  arrangements  for  having  the 
child  baptized.  She  was  lying  on  the  bed  opposite 
the  door;  on  her  right  stood  the  godfather,  Ivan 
Ivanovitch  Eroshkin,  a  most  estimable  man,  who 
served  as  presiding  officer  of  the  senate;  and  the  god- 
mother, Anna  Semenovna  Byelobrushkova,  the  wife 
of  an  officer  of  the  quarter,  and  a  woman  of  rare  vir- 
tues. They  offered  the  mother  her  choice  of  three 
names,  Mokiya,  Sossiya,  or  that  the  child  should  be 
called  after  the  martyr  Khozdazat.  "No,"  said  the 
good  woman,  "all  those  names  are  poor."  In  order  to 
please  her,  they  opened  the  calendar  at  another  place; 
three  more  names  appeared,  Triphiliy,  Dula,  and 
Yarakhasiy.  "This  is  a  judgment,"  said  the  old 


THE  CLOAK  23 

woman.  "What  names !  I  truly  never  heard  the  like. 
Varadat  or  Varukh  might  have  been  borne,  but  not 
Triphiliy  and  Varakhasiy!"  They  turned  to  another 
page  and  found  Pavsikakhiy  and  Vakhtisiy.  "Now 
I  see,"  said  the  old  woman,  "that  it  is  plainly  fate. 
And  since  such  is  the  case,  it  will  be  better  to  name 
him  after  his  father.  His  father's  name  was  Akakiy, 
so  let  his  son's  be  Akakiy  too."  In  this  manner  he 
became  Akakiy  Akakievitch.  They  christened  the 
child,  whereat  he  wept,  and  made  a  grimace,  as  though 
he  foresaw  that  he  was  to  be  a  titular  councilor. 

In  this  manner  did  it  all  come  about.  We  have 
mentioned  it  in  order  that  the  reader  might  see  for 
himself  that  it  was  a  case  of  necessity,  and  that  it  was 
utterly  impossible  to  give  him  any  other  name.  When 
and  how  he  entered  the  department,  and  who  appointed 
him,  no  one  could  remember.  However  much  the 
directors  and  chiefs  of  all  kinds  were  changed,  he  was 
always  to  be  seen  in  the  same  place,  the  same  attitude, 
the  same  occupation ;  so  that  it  was  afterward  affirmed 
that  he  had  been  born  in  undress  uniform  with  a  bald 
head. 

No  respect  was  shown  him  in  the  department. 
The  porter  not  only  did  not  rise  from  his  seat  when 
he  passed,  but  never  even  glanced  at  him,  any  more 
than  if  a  fly  had  flown  through  the  reception-room. 
His  superiors  treated  him  in  coolly  despotic  fashion. 
Some  subchief  would  thrust  a  paper  under  his  nose 
without  so  much  as  saying  "Copy,"  or  "Here's  a  nice, 
interesting  affair,"  or  anything  else  agreeable,  as  is 
customary  among  well-bred  officials.  And  he  took 


24  NIKOLAI  GOGOL 

it,  looking  only  at  the  paper,  and  not  observing  who 
handed  it  to  him,  or  whether  he  had  the  right  to  do 
so;  simply  took  it,  and  set  about  copying  it. 

The  young  officials  laughed  at  and  made  fun  of  him, 
so  far  as  their  official  wit  permitted ;  told  in  his  pres- 
ence various  stories  concocted  about  him,  and  about  his 
landlady,  an  old  woman  of  seventy;  declared  that  she 
beat  him;  asked  when  the  wedding  was  to  be;  and 
strewed  bits  of  paper  over  his  head,  calling  them  snow. 
But  Akakiy  Akakievitch  answered  not  a  word,  any 
more  than  if  there  had  been  no  one  there  besides  him- 
self. It  even  had  no  effect  upon  his  work:  amid  all 
these  annoyances  he  never  made  a  single  mistake  in  a 
letter.  But  if  the  joking  became  wholly  unbearable, 
as  when  they  jogged  his  hand,  and  prevented  his  at- 
tending to  his  work,  he  would  exclaim,  "Leave  me 
alone!  Why  do  you  insult  me?"  And  there  was 
something  strange  in  the  words  and  the  voice  in  which 
they  were  uttered.  There  was  in  it  something  which 
moved  to  pity;  so  much  that  one  young  man,  a  new- 
comer, who,  taking  pattern  by  the  others,  had  per- 
mitted himself  to  make  sport  of  Akakiy,  suddenly 
stopped  short,  as  though  all  about  him  had  undergone 
a  transformation  and  presented  itself  in  a  different 
aspect.  Some  unseen  force  repelled  him  from  the  com- 
rades whose  acquaintance  he  had  made,  on  the  suppo- 
sition that  they  were  well-bred  and  polite  men.  Long 
afterward,  in  his  gayest  moments,  there  recurred  to 
his  mind  the  little  official  with  the  bald  forehead,  with 
his  heart-rending  words,  "Leave  me  alone!  Why  do 
you  insult  me?"  In  these  moving  words,  other  words 


THE  CLOAK  25 

resounded — "I  am  thy  brother."  And  the  young  man 
covered  his  face  with  his  hand ;  and  many  a  time  after- 
ward, in  the  course  of  his  life,  shuddered  at  seeing 
how  much  inhumanity  there  is  in  man,  how  much 
savage  coarseness  is  concealed  beneath  delicate, 
refined  worldliness,  and  even,  O  God!  in  that 
man  whom  the  world  acknowledges  as  honorable 
and  noble. 

It  would  be  difficult  to  find  another  man  who  lived 
so  entirely  for  his  duties.  It  is  not  enough  to  say  that 
Akakiy  labored  with  zeal:  no,  he  labored  with  love. 
In  his  copying  he  found  a  varied  and  agreeable  em- 
ployment. Enjoyment  was  written  on  his  face :  some 
letters  were  even  favorites  with  him,  and  when  he 
encountered  these  he  smiled,  winked,  and  worked  with 
his  lips,  till  it  seemed  as  though  each  letter  might  be 
read  in  his  face,  as  his  pen  traced  it.  If  his  pay  had 
been  in  proportion  to  his  zeal,  he  would,  perhaps,  to 
his  great  surprise,  have  been  made  even  a  councilor 
of  state.  But  he  worked,  as  his  companions,  the  wits, 
put  it,  like  a  horse  in  a  mill. 

Moreover,  it  is  impossible  to  say  that  no  attention 
was  paid  to  him.  One  director,  being  a  kindly  man, 
and  desirous  of  rewarding  him  for  his  long  service, 
ordered  him  to  be  given  something  more  important 
than  mere  copying.  So  he  was  ordered  to  make  a 
report  of  an  already  concluded  affair  to  another  de- 
partment; the  duty  consisting  simply  in  changing  the 
heading  and  altering  a  few  words  from  the  first  to  the 
third  person.  This  caused  him  so  much  toil  that  he 
broke  into  a  perspiration,  rubbed  his  forehead,  and 


23  NIKOLAI  GOGOL 

finally  said :  "No,  give  me  rather  something  to  copy." 
After  that  they  let  him  copy  on  forever. 

Outside  this  copying,  it  appeared  that  nothing  ex- 
isted for  him.  He  gave  no  thought  to  his  clothes ;  his 
undress  uniform  was  not  green,  but  a  sort  of  rusty- 
meal  color.  The  collar  was  low,  so  that  his  neck,  in 
spite  of  the  fact  that  it  was  not  long,  seemed  inor- 
dinately so  as  it  emerged  from  it,  like  the  necks  of 
those  plaster  cats  which  wag  their  heads  and  are  car- 
ried about  upon  the  heads  of  scores  of  image  sellers. 
And  something  was  always  sticking  to  his  uniform, 
either  a  bit  of  hay  or  some  trifle.  Moreover,  he  had 
a  peculiar  knack,  as  he  walked  along  the  street,  of 
arriving  beneath  a  window  just  as  all  sorts  of  rubbish 
was  being  flung  out  of  it ;  hence  he  always  bore  about 
on  his  hat  scraps  of  melon  rinds  and  other  such  arti- 
cles. Never  once  in  his  life  did  he  give  heed  to  what 
was  going  on  every  day  in  the  street;  while  it  is  well 
known  that  his  young  brother  officials  train  the  range 
of  their  glances  till  they  can  see  when  any  one's 
trouser-straps  come  undone  upon  the  opposite  side- 
walk, which  always  brings  a  malicious  smile  to  their 
faces.  But  Akakiy  Akakievitch  saw  in  all  things  the 
clean,  even  strokes  of  his  written  lines ;  and  only  when 
a  horse  thrust  his  nose,  from  some  unknown  quarter, 
over  his  shoulder,  and  sent  a  whole  gust  of  wind  down 
his  neck  from  his  nostrils,  did  he  observe  that  he  was 
not  in  the  middle  of  a  page,  but  in  the  middle  of  the 
street. 

On  reaching  home  he  sat  down  at  once  at  the  table, 
supped  his  cabbage-soup  up  quickly,  and  swallowed  a 


THE   CLOAK  27 

bit  of  beef  with  onions,  never  noticing  their  taste,  and 
gulping  down  everything  with  flies  and  anything  else 
which  the  Lord  happened  to  send  at  the  moment.  His 
stomach  filled,  he  rose  from  the  table  and  copied  papers 
which  he  had  brought  home.  If  there  happened  to  be 
none,  he  took  copies  for  himself,  for  his  own  gratifica- 
tion, especially  if  the  document  was  noteworthy,  not 
on  account  of  its  style,  but  of  its  being  addressed  to 
some  distinguished  person. 

Even  at  the  hour  when  the  gray  St.  Petersburg  sky 
had  quite  disappeared,  and  all  the  official  world  had 
eaten  or  dined,  each  as  he  could,  in  accordance  with 
the  salary  he  received  and  his  own  fancy;  when  all 
were  resting  from  the  departmental  jar  of  pens,  run- 
ning to  and  fro  from  their  own  and  other  people's 
indispensable  occupations,  and  from  all  the  work  that 
an  uneasy  man  makes  willingly  for  himself,  rather 
than  what  is  necessary;  when  officials  hasten  to  dedi- 
cate to  pleasure  the  time  which  is  left  to  them,  one 
bolder  than  the  rest  going  to  the  theatre ;  another  into 
the  street,  looking  under  all  the  bonnets ;  another  wast- 
ing his  evening  in  compliments  to  some  pretty  girl, 
the  star  of  a  small  official  circle;  another — and  this 
is  the  common  case  of  all — visiting  his  comrades  on 
the  fourth  or  third  floor,  in  two  small  rooms  with  an 
anteroom  or  kitchen,  and  some  pretensions  to  fashion, 
such  as  a  lamp  or  some  other  trifle,  which  has  cost 
many  a  sacrifice  of  dinner  or  pleasure  trip ;  in  a  word, 
at  the  hour  when  all  officials  disperse  among  the  con- 
tracted quarters  of  their  friends,  to  play  whist  as  they 
sip  their  tea  from  glasses  with  a  kopek's  worth  of 


28  NIKOLAI   GOGOL 

sugar,  smoke  long  pipes,  relate  at  times  some  bits  of 
gossip  which  a  Russian  man  can  never,  under  any  cir- 
cumstances, refrain  from,  and,  when  there  is  nothing 
else  to  talk  of,  repeat  eternal  anecdotes  about  the  com- 
mandant to  whom  they  had  sent  word  that  the  tails  of 
the  horses  on  the  Falconet  Monument  had  been  cut  off, 
when  all  strive  to  divert  themselves,  Akakiy  Akakie- 
vitch  indulged  in  no  kind  of  diversion.  No  one  could 
ever  say  that  he  had  seen  him  at  any  kind  of  evening 
party.  Having  written  to  his  heart's  content,  he  lay 
down  to  sleep,  smiling  at  the  thought  of  the  coming 
day — of  what  God  might  send  him  to  copy  on  the 
morrow. 

Thus  flowed  on  the  peaceful  life  of  the  man,  who, 
with  a  salary  of  four  hundred  rubles,  understood  how 
to  be  content  with  his  lot ;  and  thus  it  would  have  con- 
tinued to  flow  on,  perhaps,  to  extreme  old  age  were  it 
not  that  there  are  various  ills  strewn  along  the  path 
of  life  for  titular  councilors  as  well  as  for  private, 
actual,  court,  and  every  other  species  of  councilor, 
even  for  those  who  never  give  any  advice  or  take  any 
themselves. 

There  exists  in  St.  Petersburg  a  powerful  foe  of  all 
who  receive  a  salary  of  four  hundred  rubles  a  year, 
or  thereabouts.  This  foe  is  no  other  than  the  north- 
ern cold,  although  it  is  said  to  be  very  healthy.  At 
nine  o'clock  in  the  morning,  at  the  very  hour  when 
the  streets  are  filled  with  men  bound  for  the  various 
official  departments,  it  begins  to  bestow  such  powerful 
and  piercing  nips  on  all  noses  impartially  that  the 
poor  officials  really  do  not  know  what  to  do  with  them. 


THE  CLOAK  29 

At  an  hour  when  the  foreheads  of  even  those  who 
occupy  exalted  positions  ache  with  the  cold,  and  tears 
start  to  their  eyes,  the  poor  titular  councilors  are  some- 
times quite  unprotected.  Their  only  salvation  lies  in 
traversing  as  quickly  as  possible,  in  their  thin  little 
cloaks,  five  or  six  streets,  and  then  warming  their  feet 
in  the  porter's  room,  and  so  thawing  all  their  talents 
and  qualifications  for  official  service  which  had  become 
frozen  on  the  way. 

Akakiy  Akakievitch  had  felt  for  some  time  that  his 
back  and  shoulders  suffered  with  peculiar  poignancy 
in  spite  of  the  fact  that  he  tried  to  traverse  the  dis- 
tance with  all  possible  speed.  He  began  finally  to  won- 
der whether  the  fault  did  not  lie  in  his  cloak.  He 
examined  it  thoroughly  at  home,  and  discovered  that 
in  two  places,  namely,  on  the  back  and  shoulders,  it 
had  become  thin  as  gauze ;  the  cloth  was  worn  to  such 
a  degree  that  he  could  see  through  it,  and  the  lining 
had  fallen  into  pieces.  You  must  know  that  Akakiy 
Akakievitch's  cloak  served  as  an  object  of  ridicule  to 
the  officials;  they  even  refused  it  the  noble  name  of 
cloak,  and  called  it  a  cape.  In  fact,  it  was  of  singular 
make ;  its  collar  diminishing  year  by  year,  but  serving 
to  patch  its  other  parts.  The  patching  did  not  exhibit 
great  skill  on  the  part  of  the  tailor,  and  was,  in  fact, 
baggy  and  ugly.  Seeing  how  the  matter  stood,  Akakiy 
Akakievitch  decided  that  it  would  be  necessary  to  take 
the  cloak  to  Petrovitch,  the  tailor,  who  lived  some- 
where on  the  fourth  floor,  up  a  dark  staircase,  and 
who,  in  spite  of  his  having  but  one  eye,  and  pock- 
marks  all  over  his  face,  busied  himself  in  repairing 


80  NIKOLAI  GOGOL 

the  trousers  and  coats  of  officials  and  others,*  that  is 
to  say,  when  he  was  sober,  and  not  nursing  some  other 
scheme  in  his  head. 

It  is  not  necessary  to  say  much  about  this  tailor; 
but,  as  it  is  the  custom  to  have  the  character  of  each 
personage  in  a  novel  clearly  defined,  there  is  no  help 
for  it,  so  here  is  Petrovitch  the  tailor.  At  first  he  was 
called  only  Grigoriy,  and  was  some  gentleman's  serf; 
he  commenced  calling  himself  Petrovitch  from  the 
time  when  he  received  his  free  papers,  and  further 
began  to  drink  heavily  on  all  holidays,  at  first  on  the 
great  ones,  and  then  on  all  church  festivals  without 
discrimination,  wherever  a  cross  stood  in  the  calendar. 
On  this  point  he  was  faithful  to  ancestral  custom ;  and 
when  quarreling  with  his  wife  he  called  her  a  low 
female  and  a  German.  As  we  have  mentioned  his  wife, 
it  will  be  necessary  to  say  a  word  or  two  about  her. 
Unfortunately,  little  is  known  of  her  beyond  the  fact 
that  Petrovitch  has  a  wife,  who  wears  a  cap  and  a 
dress,  but  can  not  lay  claim  to  beauty ;  at  least,  no  one 
but  the  soldiers  of  the  guard  even  looked  under  her 
cap  when  they  met  her. 

Ascending  the  staircase  which  led  to  Petrovitch's 
room — which  staircase  was  all  soaked  with  dish-water 
and  reeked  with  the  smell  of  spirits  which  affects  the 
eyes,  and  is  an  inevitable  adjunct  to  all  dark  stairways 
in  St.  Petersburg  houses — ascending  the  stairs,  Akakiy 
Akakievitch  pondered  how  much  Petrovitch  would  ask, 
and  mentally  resolved  not  to  give  more  than  two 
rubles.  The  door  was  open ;  for  the  mistress,  in  cook- 
ing some  fish,  had  raised  such  a  smoke  in  the  kitchen 


THE  CLOAK  81 

that  not  even  the  beetles  were  visible.  Akakry  Akakie- 
vitch  passed  through  the  kitchen  unperceived,  even  by 
the  housewife,  and  at  length  reached  a  room  where  he 
beheld  Petrovitch  seated  on  a  large  unpainted  table, 
with  his  legs  tucked  under  him  like  a  Turkish  pasha. 
His  feet  were  bare,  after  the  fashion  of  tailors  as  they 
sit  at  work;  and  the  first  thing  which  caught  the  eye 
was  his  thumb,  with  a  deformed  nail  thick  and  strong 
as  a  turtle's  shell.  About  Petrovitch's  neck  hung  a 
skein  of  silk  and  thread,  and  upon  his  knees  lay  some 
old  garment.  He  had  been  trying  unsuccessfully  for 
three  minutes  to  thread  his  needle,  and  was  enraged 
at  the  darkness  and  even  at  the  thread,  growling  in  a 
low  voice,  "It  won't  go  through,  the  barbarian!  You 
pricked  me,  you  rascal!" 

Akakiy  Akakievitch  was  vexed  at  arriving  at  the 
precise  moment  when  Petrovitch  was  angry;  he  liked 
to  order  something  of  Petrovitch  when  the  latter  was 
a  little  downhearted,  or,  as  his  wife  expressed  it, 
"when  he  had  settled  himself  with  brandy,  the  one- 
eyed  devil!"  Under  such  circumstances,  Petrovitch 
generatty  came  down  in  his  price  very  readily,  and 
even  bowed  and  returned  thanks.  Afterward,  to  be 
sure,  his  wife  would  come,  complaining  that  her  hus- 
band was  drunk,  and  so  had  fixed  the  price  too  low; 
but  if  only  a  ten-kopek  piece  were  added,  then  the 
matter  was  settled.  But  now  it  appeared  that  Petro- 
vitch was  in  a  sober  condition,  and  therefore  rough, 
taciturn,  and  inclined  to  demand,  Satan  only  knows 
what  price.  Akakiy  Akakievitch  felt  this,  and  would 
gladly  have  beat  a  retreat;  but  he  was  in  for  it.  Petro- 


82  NIKOLAI  GOGOL 

vitch  screwed  up  his  one  eye  very  intently  at  him ;  and 
Akakiy  Akakievitch  involuntarily  said:  "How  do  you 
do,  Petrovitch?" 

"I  wish  you  a  good-morning,  sir,"  said  Petrovitch, 
squinting  at  Akakiy  Akakievitch's  hands,  to  see  what 
sort  of  booty  he  had  brought. 

"Ah!  I — to  you,  Petrovitch,  this— "  It  must  be 
known  that  Akakiy  Akakievitch  expressed  himself 
chiefly  by  prepositions,  adverbs,  and  scraps  of  phrases 
which  had  no  meaning  whatever.  If  the  matter  was 
a  very  difficult  one,  he  had  a  habit  of  never  complet- 
ing his  sentences;  so  that  frequently,  having  begun  a 
phrase  with  the  words,  "This,  in  fact,  is  quite — "  he 
forgot  to  go  on,  thinking  that  he  had  already  finished  it. 

"What  is  it?"  asked  Petrovitch,  and  with  his  one 
eye  scanned  Akakievitch's  whole  uniform  from  the 
collar  down  to  the  cuffs,  the  back,  the  tails,  and  the 
button-holes,  all  of  which  were  well  known  to  him, 
since  they  were  his  own  handiwork.  Such  is  the  habit 
of  tailors ;  it  is  the  first  thing  they  do  on  meeting  one. 

"But  I,  here,  this — Petrovitch — a  cloak,  cloth — here 
you  see,  everywhere,  in  different  places,  it  is  quite 
strong — it  is  a  little  dusty,  and  looks  old,  but  it  is  new, 
,only  here  in  one  place  it  is  a  little — on  the  back,  and 
here  on  one  of  the  shoulders,  it  is  a  little  worn,  yes, 
here  on  this  shoulder  it  is  a  little — do  you  see  ?  that  is 
all.  And  a  little  work—" 

Petrovich  took  the  cloak,  spread  it  out,  to  begin 
with,  on  the  table,  looked  hard  at  it,  shook  his  head, 
reached  out  his  hand  to  the  window-sill  for  his  snuff- 
box, adorned  with  the  portrait  of  some  general,  though 


THE  CLOAK  33 

what  general  is  unknown,  for  the  place  where  the  face 
should  have  been  had  been  rubbed  through  by  the 
finger,  and  a  square  bit  of  paper  had  been  pasted  over 
it.  Having  taken  a  pinch  of  snuff,  Petrovitch  held 
up  the  cloak,  and  inspected  it  against  the  light,  and 
again  shook  his  head.  Then  he  turned  it,  lining  up- 
ward, and  shook  his  head  once  more.  After  which  he 
again  lifted  the  general-adorned  lid  with  its  bit  of 
pasted  paper,  and,  having  stuffed  his  nose  with  snuff, 
closed  and  put  away  the  snuff-box,  and  said  finally, 
"No,  it  is  impossible  to  mend  it;  it's  a  wretched 
garment !" 

Akakiy  Akakievitch's  heart  sank  at  these  words. 

"Why  is  it  impossible,  Petrovitch?"  he  said,  almost 
in  the  pleading  voic€  of  a  child;  "all  that  ails  it  is 
that  it  is  worn  at  the  shoulders.  You  must  have  some 
pieces — " 

"Yes,  patches  could  be  found,  patches  are  easily 
found,"  said  Petrovitch,  "but  there's  nothing  to  sew 
them  to.  The  thing  is  completely  rotten;  if  you  put 
a  needle  to  it — see,  it  will  give  way." 

"Let  it  give  way,  and  you  can  put  on  another  patch 
at  once." 

"But  there  is  nothing  to  put  the  patches  on  to; 
there's  no  use  in  strengthening  it;  it  is  too  far  gone. 
It's  lucky  that  it's  cloth ;  for,  if  the  wind  were  to  blow, 
it  would  fly  away." 

"Well,  strengthen  it  again.    How  this,  in  fact." 

"No,"  said  Petrovitch  decisively,  "there  is  nothing 
to  be  done  with  it.  It's  a  thoroughly  bad  job.  You'd 
better,  when  the  cold  winter  weather  comes  on,  make 


34  NIKOLAI   GOGOL 

yourself  some  gaiters  out  of  it,  because  stockings  are 
not  warm.  The  Germans  invented  them  in  order  to 
make  more  money."  Petrovitch  loved,  on  all  occa- 
sions, to  have  a  fling  at  the  Germans.  "But  it  is  plain 
you  must  have  a  new  cloak." 

At  the  word  "new,"  all  grew  dark  before  Akakiy 
Akakievitch's  eyes  and  everything  in  the  room  began 
to  whirl  round.  The  only  thing  he  saw  clearly  was 
the  general  with  the  paper  face  on  the  lid  of  Petro- 
vitch's  snuff-box.  "A  new  one?"  said  he,  as  if  still 
in  a  dream :  "why,  I  have  no  money  for  that." 

"Yes,  a  new  one,"  said  Petrovitch,  with  barbarous 
composure. 

"Well,  if  it  came  to  a  new  one,  how  it  ?" 

"You  mean  how  much  would  it  cost  ?" 

"Yes." 

"Well,  you  would  have  to  lay  out  a  hundred  and 
fifty  or  more,"  said  Petrovitch,  and  pursed  up  his  lips 
significantly.  He  liked  to  produce  powerful  effects, 
liked  to  stun  utterly  and  suddenly  and  then  to  glance 
sidewise  to  see  what  face  the  stunned  person  would 
put  on  the  matter. 

"A  hundred  and  fifty  rubles  for  a  cloak!"  shrieked 
poor  Akakiy  Akakievitch,  perhaps  for  the  first  time  in 
his  life,  for  his  voice  had  always  been  distinguished 
for  softness. 

"Yes,  sir,"  said  Petrovitch,  "for  any  kind  of  cloak. 
If  you  have  a  marten  fur  on  the  collar,  or  a  silk-lined 
hood,  it  will  mount  up  to  two  hundred." 

"Petrovitch,  please,"  said  Akakiy  Akakievitch  in  a 
beseeching  tone,  not  hearing,  and  not  trying  to  hear, 


THE  CLOAK  35 

Petrovitch's  words,  and  disregarding  all  his  "effects," 
"some  repairs,  in  order  that  it  may  wear  yet  a  little 
longer/' 

"No,  it  would  only  be  a  waste  of  time  and  money," 
said  Petrovitch;  and  Akakiy  Akakievitch  went  away 
after  these  words,  utterly  discouraged.  But  Petro- 
vitch stood  for  some  time  after  his  departure,  with 
significantly  compressed  lips,  and  without  betaking 
himself  to  his  work,  satisfied  that  he  would  not  be 
dropped,  and  an  artistic  tailor  employed. 

Akakiy  Akakievitch  went  out  into  the  street  as  if 
in  a  dream.  "Such  an  affair!"  he  said  to  himself: 
"I  did  not  think  it  had  come  to — "  and  then  after  a 
pause  he  added :  "Well,  so  it  is !  see  what  it  has  come 
to  at  last!  and  I  never  imagined  that  it  was  so!" 
Then  followed  a  long  silence,  after  which  he  ex- 
claimed: "Well,  so  it  is!  see  what  already — nothing 
unexpected  that  it  would  be  nothing — what  a  strange 
circumstance!"  So  saying,  instead  of  going  home,  he 
went  in  exactly  the  opposite  direction  without  himself 
suspecting  it.  On  the  way  a  chimney-sweep  bumped 
up  against  him  and  blackened  his  shoulder,  and  a  whole 
hatful  of  rubbish  landed  on  him  from  the  top  of  a 
house  which  was  building.  He  did  not  notice  it;  and 
only  when  he  ran  against  a  watchman,  who,  having 
planted  his  halberd  beside  him,  was  shaking  some 
snuff  from  his  box  into  his  horny  hand,  did  he  recover 
himself  a  little,  and  that  because  the  watchman  said, 
"Why  are  you  poking  yourself  into  a  man's  very  face  ? 
Haven't  you  the  pavement?"  This  caused  him  to  look 
about  him,  and  turn  toward  home. 


36  NIKOLAI  GOGOL 

There  only  he  finally  began  to  collect  his  thoughts 
and  to  survey  his  position  in  its  clear  and  actual  light, 
and  to  argue  with  himself,  sensibly  and  frankly,  as 
with  a  reasonable  friend,  with  whom  one  can  discuss 
private  and  personal  matters.  "No,"  said  Akakiy  Aka- 
kievitch,  "it  is  impossible  to  reason  with  Petrovitch 
now;  he  is  that — evidently  his  wife  has  been  beating 
him.  I'd  better  go  to  him  on  Sunday  morning;  after 
Saturday  night  he  will  be  a  little  cross-eyed  and  sleepy, 
for  he  will  want  to  get  drunk,  and  his  wife  won't  give 
him  any  money;  and  at  such  a  time  a  ten-kopek  piece 
in  his  hand  will — he  will  become  more  fit  to  reason 
with,  and  then  the  cloak,  and  that — "  Thus  argued 
Akakiy  Akakievitch  with  himself,  regained  his  cour- 
age, and  waited  until  the  first  Sunday,  when,  seeing 
from  afar  that  Petrovitch's  wife  had  left  the  house, 
he  went  straight  to  him. 

Petrovitch's  eye  was,  indeed,  very  much  askew  after 
Saturday:  his  head  drooped  and  he  was  very  sleepy; 
but  for  all  that,  as  soon  as  he  knew  what  it  was  a 
question  of,  it  seemed  as  though  Satan  jogged  his 
memory.  "Impossible,"  said  he;  "please  to  order  a 
new  one."  Thereupon  Akakiy  Akakievitch  handed 
over  the  ten-kopek  piece.  "Thank  you,  sir;  I  will 
drink  your  good  health,"  said  Petrovitch ;  "but  as  for 
the  cloak,  don't  trouble  yourself  about  it;  it  is  good 
for  nothing.  I  will  make  you  a  capital  new  one,  so 
let  us  settle  about  it  now." 

Akakiy  Akakievitch  was  still  for  mending  it;  but 
Petrovitch  would  not  hear  of  it,  and  said :  "I  shall  cer- 
tainly have  to  make  you  a  new  one,  and  you  may 


THE   CLOAK  37 

depend  upon  it  that  I  shall  do  my  best.  It  may  even 
be,  as  the  fashion  goes,  that  the  collar  can  be  fastened 
by  silver  hooks  under  a  flap." 

Then  Akakiy  Akakievitch  saw  that  it  was  impos- 
sible to  get  along  without  a  new  cloak,  and  his  spirit 
sank  utterly.  How,  in  fact,  was  it  to  be  done  ?  Where 
was  the  money  to  come  from?  He  might,  to  be  sure, 
depend,  in  part,  upon  his  present  at  Christmas;  but 
that  money  had  long  been  allotted  beforehand.  He 
must  have  some  new  trousers,  and  pay  a  debt  of  long 
standing  to  the  shoemaker  for  putting  new  tops  to  his 
old  boots,  and  he  must  order  three  shirts  from  the 
seamstress,  and  a  couple  of  pieces  of  linen.  In  short, 
all  his  money  must  be  spent;  and  even  if  the  director 
should  be  so  kind  as  to  order  him  to  receive  forty-five 
rubles  instead  of  forty,  or  even  fifty,  it  would  be  a 
mere  nothing,  a  mere  drop  in  the  ocean  toward  the 
funds  necessary  for  a  cloak;  although  he  knew  that 
Petrovitch  was  often  wrong-headed  enough  to  blurt 
out  some  outrageous  price,  so  that  even  his  own  wife 
could  not  refrain  from  exclaiming,  "Have  you  lost 
your  senses,  you  fool?"  At  one  time  he  would  not 
work  at  any  price,  and  now  it  was  quite  likely  that 
he  had  named  a  higher  sum  than  the  cloak  would  cost 

But  although  he  knew  that  Petrovitch  would  under- 
take to  make  a  cloak  for  eighty  rubles,  still,  where  was 
he  to  get  the  eighty  rubles  from  ?  He  might  possibly 
manage  half;  yes,  half  might  be  procured,  but  where 
was  the  other  half  to  come  from  ?  But  the  reader  must 
first  be  told  where  the  first  half  came  from.  Akakiy 
Akakievitch  had  a  habit  of  putting,  for  every  ruble  he 


38  NIKOLAI  GOGOL 

spent,  a  kopek  into  a  small  box,  fastened  with  lock 
and  key,  and  with  a  slit  in  the  top  for  the  reception 
of  money.  At  the  end  of  every  half-year  he  counted 
over  the  heap  of  coppers,  and  changed  it  for  silver. 
This  he  had  done  for  a  long  time,  and  in  the  course 
of  years  the  sum  had  mounted  up  to  over  forty  rubles. 
Thus  he  had  one-half  on  hand;  but  where  was  he 
to  find  the  other  half?  where  was  he  to  get  another 
forty  rubles  from?  Akakiy  Akakievitch  thought  and 
thought,  and  decided  that  it  would  be  necessary  to 
curtail  his  ordinary  expenses  for  the  space  of  one  year 
at  least — to  dispense  with  tea  in  the  evening,  to  burn 
no  candles,  and,  if  there  was  anything  which  he  must 
do,  to  go  into  his  landlady's  room  and  work  by  her 
light.  When  he  went  into  the  street  he  must  walk  as 
lightly  as  he  could,  and  as  cautiously,  upon  the  stones, 
almost  upon  tiptoe,  in  order  not  to  wear  his  heels  down 
in  too  short  a  time ;  he  must  give  the  laundress  as  little 
to  wash  as  possible;  and,  in  order  not  to  wear  out  his 
clothes,  he  must  take  them  off  as  soon  as  he  got  home, 
and  wear  only  his  cotton  dressing-gown,  which  had 
been  long  and  carefully  saved. 

To  tell  the  truth,  it  was  a  little  hard  for  him  at 
first  to  accustom  himself  to  these  deprivations ;  but  he 
got  used  to  them  at  length,  after  a  fashion,  and  all 
went  smoothly.  He  even  got  used  to  being  hungry  in 
the  evening,  but  he  made  up  for  it  by  treating  him- 
self, so  to  say^  in  spirit,  by  bearing  ever  m  mind  the 
idea  of  his  future  cloak.  From  that  time  forth  his 
existence  seemed  to  become,  in  some  way,  fuller,  as 
if  he  were  married,  or  as  if  some  other  man  lived  in 


THE  CLOAK  39 

him,  as  if,  in  fact,  he  were  not  alone,  and  some  pleas- 
ant friend  had  consented  to  travel  along  life's  path 
with  him,  the  friend  being  no  other  than  the  cloak, 
with  thick  wadding  and  a  strong  lining  incapable  of 
wearing  out.  He  became  more  lively,  and  even  his 
character  grew  firmer,  like  that  of  a  man  who  has 
made  up  his  mind  and  set  himself  a  goal.  From  his 
face  and  gait,  doubt  and  indecision,  all  hesitating 
and  wavering  traits,  disappeared  of  themselves.  Fire 
gleamed  in  his  eyes,  and  occasionally  the  boldest  and 
most  daring  ideas  flitted  through  his  mind;  why  not, 
for  instance,  have  marten  fur  on  the  collar?  The 
thought  of  this  almost  made  him  absent-minded.  Once, 
in  copying  a  letter,  he  nearly  made  a  mistake,  so  that 
he  exclaimed  almost  aloud,  "Ugh!"  and  crossed  him- 
self. Once  in  the  course  of  every  month  he  had  a 
conference  with  Petrovitch  on  the  subject  of  the  cloak, 
where  it  would  be  better  to  buy  the  cloth,  and  the  color, 
and  the  price.  He  always  returned  home  satisfied, 
though  troubled,  reflecting  that  the  time  would  come 
at  last  when  it  could  all  be  bought,  and  then  the 
cloak  made. 

The  affair  progressed  more  briskly  than  he  had 
expected.  Far  beyond  all  his  hopes,  the  director 
awarded  neither  forty  nor  forty-five  rubles  for  Akakiy 
Akakievitch's  share,  but  sixty.  Whether  he  suspected 
that  Akakiy  Akakievitch  needed  a  cloak,  or  whether  it 
was  merely  chance;  at  all  events,  twenty  extra  rubles 
were  by  this  means  provided.  This  circumstance  has- 
tened matters.  Two  or  three  months  more  of  hunger 
and  Akakiy  Akakievitch  had  accumulated  about  eighty 
3— VOL.  i 


40  NIKOLAI  GOGOL 

rubles.  His  Heart,  generally  so  quiet,  began  to  throb. 
On  the  first  possible  day  he  went  shopping  in  company 
with  Petrovitch.  They  bought  some  very  good  cloth, 
and  at  a  reasonable  rate  too,  for  they  had  been  con- 
sidering the  matter  for  six  months,  and  rarely  let  a 
month  pass  without  their  visiting  the  shops  to  inquire 
prices.  Petrovitch  himself  said  that  no  better  cloth 
could  be  had.  For  lining,  they  selected  a  cotton  stuff, 
but  so  firm  and  thick  that  Petrovitch  declared  it  to 
be  better  than  silk,  and  even  prettier  and  more  glossy. 
They  did  not  buy  the  marten  fur  because  it  was,  in 
fact,  dear,  but  in  its  stead  they  picked  out  the  very 
best  of  cat-skin  which  could  be  found  in  the  shop,  and 
which  might,  indeed,  be  taken  for  marten  at  a  distance. 

Petrovitch  worked  at  the  cloak  two  whole  weeks, 
for  there  was  a  great  deal  of  quilting;  otherwise  it 
would  have  been  finished  sooner.  He  charged  twelve 
rubles  for  the  job ;  it  could  not  possibly  have  been  done 
for  less.  It  was  all  sewed  with  silk,  in  small,  double 
seams ;  and  Petrovitch  went  over  each  seam  afterward 
with  his  own  teeth. 

It  was — it  is  difficult  to  say  precisely  on  what  day, 
but  probably  the  most  glorious  one  in  Akakiy  Akakie- 
vitch's  life,  when  Petrovitch  at  length  brought  home 
the  cloak.  He  brought  it  in  the  morning,  before  the 
hour  when  it  was  necessary  to  start  for  the  depart- 
ment. Never  did  a  cloak  arrive  so  exactly  in  the  nick 
of  time,  for  the  severe  cold  had  set  in,  and  it  seemed 
to  threaten  to  increase.  Petrovitch  brought  the  cloak 
himself  as  befits  a  good  tailor.  On  his  countenance 
was  a  significant  expression,  such  as  Akakiy  Akakie- 


THE  CLOAK  41 

vitch  had  never  beheld  there.  He  seemed  fully  sensi- 
ble that  he  had  done  no  small  deed,  and  crossed  a  gulf 
separating  tailors  who  only  put  in  linings  and  execute 
repairs  from  those  who  make  new  things.  He  took 
the  cloak  out  of  the  pocket-handkerchief  in  which  he 
had  brought  it  The  handkerchief  was  fresh  from 
the  laundress,  and  he  put  it  in  his  pocket  for  use. 
Taking  out  the  cloak,  he  gazed  proudly  at  it,  held  it 
up  with  both  hands,  and  flung  it  skilfully  over  the 
shoulders  of  Akakiy  Akakievitch.  Then  he  pulled  it 
and  fitted  it  down  behind  with  his  hand,  and  he  draped 
it  around  Akakiy  Akakievitch  without  buttoning  it. 
Akakiy  Akakievitch,  like  an  experienced  man,  wished 
to  try  the  sleeves.  Petrovitch  helped  him  on  with 
them,  and  it  turned  out  that  the  sleeves  were  satisfac- 
tory also.  In  short,  the  cloak  appeared  to  be  perfect 
and  most  seasonable.  Petrovitch  did  not  neglect  to 
observe  that  it  was  only  because  he  lived  in  a  narrow 
street,  and  had  no  signboard,  and  had  known  Akakiy 
Akakievitch  so  long,  that  he  had  made  it  so  cheaply; 
but  that  if  he  had  been  in  business  on  the  Nevsky 
Prospect  he  would  have  charged  seventy-five  rubles 
for  the  making  alone.  Akakiy  Akakievitch  did  not 
care  to  argue  this  point  with  Petrovitch.  He  paid 
him,  thanked  him,  and  set  out  at  once  in  his  new 
cloak  for  the  department.  Petrovitch  followed  him, 
and,  pausing  in  the  street,  gazed  long  at  the  cloak  in 
the  distance,  after  which  he  went  to  one  side  expressly 
to  run  through  a  crooked  alley  and  emerge  again  into 
the  street  beyond  to  gaze  once  more  upon  the  cloak 
from  another  point,  namely,  directly  in  front. 


42  NIKOLAI  GOGOU 

Meantime  Akakiy  Akakievitch  went  on  in  holiday 
mood.  He  was  conscious,  every  second  of  the  time, 
that  he  had  a  new  cloak  on  his  shoulders;  and  several 
times  he  laughed  with  internal  satisfaction.  In  fact, 
there  were  two  advantages,  one  was  its  warmth,  the 
other  its  beauty.  He  saw  nothing  of  the  road,  but 
suddenly  found  himself  at  the  department.  He  took 
off  his  cloak  in  the  anteroom,  looked  it  over  carefully, 
and  confided  it  to  the  especial  care  of  the  attendant. 
It  is  impossible  to  say  precisely  how  it  was  that  every 
one  in  the  department  knew  at  once  that  Akakiy  Aka- 
kievitch had  a  new  cloak,  and  that  the  "cape"  no  longer 
existed.  All  rushed  at  the  same  moment  into  the  ante- 
room, to  inspect  it.  They  congratulated  him  and  said 
pleasant  things  to  him,  so  that  he  began  at  first  to  smile 
and  then  to  grow  ashamed.  When  all  surrounded 
him  and  said  that  the  new  cloak  must  be  "christened," 
and  that  he  must  give  a  whole  evening  at  least  to  this, 
Akakiy  Akakievitch  lost  his  head  completely,  and  did 
not  know  where  he  stood,  what  to  answer,  or  how  to 
get  out  of  it.  He  stood  blushing  all  over  for  several 
minutes,  and  was  on  the  point  of  assuring  them  with 
great  simplicity  that  it  was  not  a  new  cloak,  that  it 
was  so  and  so,  that  it  was  in  fact  the  old  "cape." 

At  length  one  of  the  officials,  a  subchief  probably, 
in  order  to  show  that  he  was  not  at  all  proud,  and  on 
good  terms  with  his  inferiors,  said:  "So  be  it,  only  I 
will  give  the  party  instead  of  Akakiy  Akakievitch; 
I  invite  you  all  to  tea  with  me  to-night;  it  happens 
quite  d  propos,  as  it  is  my  name-day."  The  officials 
naturally  at  once  offered  the  subchief  their  congrat- 


THE  CLOAK  48 

illations,  and  accepted  the  invitation  with  pleasure. 
Akakiy  Akakievitch  would  have  declined,  but  all  de- 
clared that  it  was  discourteous,  that  it  was  simply  a 
sin  and  a  shame,  and  that  he  could  not  possibly  refuse. 
Besides,  the  notion  became  pleasant  to  him  when  he 
recollected  that  he  should  thereby  have  a  chance  of 
wearing  his  new  cloak  in  the  evening  also. 

That  whole  day  was  truly  a  most  triumphant  fes- 
tival day  for  Akakiy  Akakievitch.  He  returned  home 
in  the  most  happy  frame  of  mind,  took  off  his  cloak, 
and  hung  it  carefully  on  the  wall,  admiring  afresh  the 
cloth  and  the  lining.  Then  he  brought  out  his  old, 
worn-out  cloak  for  comparison.  He  looked  at  it  and 
laughed,  so  vast  was  the  difference.  And  long  after 
dinner  he  laughed  again  when  the  condition  of  the 
"cape"  recurred  to  his  mind.  He  dined  cheerfully, 
and  after  dinner  wrote  nothing,  but  took  his  ease  for 
a  while  on  the  bed,  until  it  got  dark.  Then  he  dressed 
himself  leisurely,  put  on  his  cloak,  and  stepped  out 
into  the  street.  Where  the  host  lived,  unfortunately, 
we  can  not  say;  our  memory  begins  to  fail  us  badly; 
and  the  houses  and  streets  in  St.  Petersburg  have  be- 
come so  mixed  up  in  our  head  that  it  is  very  difficult 
to  get  anything  out  of  it  again  in  proper  form.  This 
much  is  certain,  that  the  official  lived  in  the  best  part 
of  the  city ;  and,  therefore,  it  must  have  been  anything 
but  near  to  Akakiy  Akakievitch's  residence.  Akakiy 
Akakievitch  was  first  obliged  to  traverse  a  kind  of 
wilderness  of  deserted,  dimly  lighted  streets;  but  in 
proportion  as  he  approached  the  official's  quarter  of 
the  city  the  streets  became  more  lively,  more  populous, 


44  NIKOLAI   GOGOL 

and  more  brilliantly  illuminated.  Pedestrians  began 
to  appear;  handsomely  dressed  ladies  were  more  fre- 
quently encountered;  the  men  had  otter-skin  collars 
to  their  coats;  peasant  wagoners,  with  their  gratelike 
sledges  stuck  over  with  brass-headed  nails,  became 
rarer ;  while,  on  the  other  hand,  more  and  more  drivers 
in  red  velvet  caps,  lacquered  sledges,  and  bear-skin 
coats  began  to  appear,  and  carriages  with  rich  hammer- 
cloths  flew  swiftly  through  the  streets,  their  wheels 
crunching  the  snow.  Akakiy  Akakievitch  gazed  upon 
all  this  as  upon  a  novel  sight.  He  had  not  been  in  the 
streets  during  the  evening  for  years.  He  halted  out  of 
curiosity  before  a  shop-window,  to  look  at  a  picture 
representing  a  handsome  woman,  who  had  thrown  off 
her  shoe,  thereby  baring  her  whole  foot  in  a  very 
pretty  way;  while  behind  her  the  head  of  a  man  with 
whiskers  and  a  handsome  mustache  peeped  through 
the  doorway  of  another  room.  Akakiy  Akakievitch 
shook  his  head  and  laughed,  and  then  went  on  his  way. 
Why  did  he  laugh?  Either  because  he  had  met  with 
a  thing  utterly  unknown,  but  for  which  every  one 
cherishes,  nevertheless,  some  sort  of  feeling;  or  else 
he  thought,  like  many  officials,  as  follows :  "Well,  those 
French!  What  is  to  be  said?  If  they  do  go  in  any^ 
thing  of  that  sort,  why — "  But  possibly  he  did  not 
think  at  all. 

Akakiy  Akakievitch'  at  length  reached  the  house  in 
which  the  subchief  lodged.  The  subchief  lived  in  fine 
style;  the  staircase  was  lit  by  a  lamp,  his  apartment 
being  on  the  second  floor.  On  entering  the  vestibule, 
Akakiy  Akakievitch  beheld  a  whole  row  of  goloshes 


THE  CLOAK  45 

on  the  floor.  Among  them,  in  the  centre  of  the  room, 
stood  a  samovar,  or  tea-urn,  humming  and  emitting 
clouds  of  steam.  On  the  walls  hung  all  sorts  of  coats 
and  cloaks,  among  which  there  were  even  some  with 
beaver  collars  or  velvet  facings.  Beyond,  the  buzz  of 
conversation  was  audible,  and  became  clear  and  loud 
when  the  servant  came  out  with  a  trayful  of  empty 
glasses,  cream- jugs,  and  sugar-bowls.  It  was  evident 
that  the  officials  had  arrived  long  before,  and  had 
already  finished  their  first  glass  of  tea. 

Akakiy  Akakievitch,  having  hung  up  his  own  cloak, 
entered  the  inner  room.  Before  him  all  at  once  ap- 
peared lights,  officials,  pipes,  and  card-tables;  and  he 
was  bewildered  by  a  sound  of  rapid  conversation  ris- 
ing from  all  the  tables,  and  the  noise  of  moving  chairs. 
He  halted  very  awkwardly  in  the  middle  of  the  room, 
wondering  what  he  ought  to  do.  But  they  had  seen 
him.  They  received  him  with  a  shout,  and  all  thronged 
at  once  into  the  anteroom,  and  there  took  another  look 
at  his  cloak.  Akakiy  Akakievitch,  although  somewhat 
confused,  was  frank-hearted,  and  could  not  refrain 
from  rejoicing  when  he  saw  how  they  praised  his 
cloak.  Then,  of  course,  they  all  dropped  him  and  his 
cloak,  and  returned,  as  was  proper,  to  the  tables  set 
out  for  whist. 

All  this,  the  noise,  the  talk,  and  the  throng  of  peo- 
ple was  rather  overwhelming  to  Akakiy  Akakievitch. 
He  simply  did  not  know  where  he  stood,  or  where  to 
put  his  hands,  his  feet,  and  his  whole  body.  Finally 
he  sat  down  by  the  players,  looked  at  the  cards,  gazed 
at  the  face  of  one  and  another,  and  after  a  while  began 


46  NIKOLAI  GOGOL 

to  gape,  and  to  feel  that  it  was  wearisome,  the  more 
so  as  the  hour  was  already  long  past  when  he  usually 
went  to  bed.  He  wanted  to  take  leave  of  the  host; 
but  they  would  not  let  him  go,  saying  that  he  must 
not  fail  to  drink  a  glass  of  champagne,  in  honor  of 
his  new  garment.  In  the  course  of  an  hour,  supper, 
consisting  of  vegetables,  salad,  cold  veal,  pastry,  con- 
fectioner's pies,  and  champagne,  was  served.  They 
made  Akakiy  Akakievitch  drink  two  glasses  of  cham- 
pagne, after  which  he  felt  things  grow  livelier. 

Still,  he  could  not  forget  that  it  was  twelve  o'clock, 
and  that  he  should  have  been  at  home  long  ago.  In 
order  that  the  host  might  not  think  of  some  excuse  for 
detaining  him,  he  stole  out  of  the  room  quickly,  sought 
out,  in  the  anteroom,  his  cloak,  which,  to  his  sorrow, 
he  found  lying  on  the  floor,  brushed  it,  picked  off  every 
speck  upon  it,  put  it  on  his  shoulders,  and  descended 
the  stairs  to  the  street. 

In  the  street  all  was  still  bright.  Some  petty  shops, 
those  permanent  clubs  of  servants  and  all  sorts  of  folks, 
were  open.  Others  were  shut,  but,  nevertheless,  showed 
a  streak  of  light  the  whole  length  of  the  door-crack, 
indicating  that  they  were  not  yet  free  of  company,  and 
that  probably  some  domestics,  male  and  female,  were 
finishing  their  stories  and  conversations,  while  leaving 
their  masters  in  complete  ignorance  as  to  their  where- 
abouts. Akakiy  Akakievitch  went  on  in  a  happy  frame 
of  mind :  he  even  started  to  run,  without  knowing  why, 
after  some  lady,  who  flew  past  like  a  flash  of  lightning. 
But  he  stopped  short,  and  went  on  very  quietly  as  be- 
fore, wondering  why  he  had  quickened  his  pace.  Soon 


THE  CLOAK  47 

there  spread  before  him  those  deserted  streets,  which 
are  not  cheerful  in  the  daytime,  to  say  nothing  of  the 
evening.  Now  they  were  even  more  dim  and  lonely: 
the  lanterns  began  to  grow  rarer,  oil,  evidently,  had 
been  less  liberally  supplied.  Then  came  wooden  houses 
and  fences :  not  a  soul  anywhere ;  only  the  snow  spar- 
kled in  the  streets  and  mournfully  veiled  the  low-roofed 
cabins  with  their  closed  shutters.  He  approached  the 
spot  where  the  street  crossed  a  vast  square  with  houses 
barely  visible  on  its  farther  side,  a  square  which  seemed 
a  fearful  desert. 

Afar,  a  tiny  spark  glimmered  from  some  watch- 
man's box,  which  seemed  to  stand  on  the  edge  of  the 
world.  Akakiy  Akakievitch's  cheerfulness  diminished 
at  this  point  in  a  marked  degree.  He  entered  the 
square,  not  without  an  involuntary  sensation  of  fear, 
as  though  his  heart  warned  him  of  some  evil.  He 
glanced  back  and  on  both  sides,  it  was  like  a  sea  about 
him.  "No,  it  is  better  not  to  look,"  he  thought,  and 
went  on,  closing  his  eyes.  When  he  opened  them,  to 
see  whether  he  was  near  the  end  of  the  square,  he 
suddenly  beheld,  standing  just  before  his  very  nose, 
some  bearded  individuals  of  precisely  what  sort  he 
could  not  make  out.  All  grew  dark  before  his  eyes, 
and  his  heart  throbbed.  „. 

"But,  of  course,  the  cloak  is  mine!"  said  one  of 
them  in  a  loud  voice,  seizing  hold  of  his  collar.  Akakiy 
Akakievitch  was  about  to  shout  "watch"  when  the 
second  man  thrust  a  fist  about  the  size  of  a  man's  head 
into  his  mouth,  muttering,  "Now  scream!" 

Akakiy  Akakievitch  felt  them  strip  off  his  cloak  and 


48  NIKOLAI  GOGOL 

give  him  a  push  with  a  knee;  he  fell  headlong  upon 
the  snow,  and  felt  no  more.  In  a  few  minutes  he 
recovered  consciousness,  and  rose  to  his  feet;  but  no 
one  was  there.  He  felt  that  it  was  cold  in  the  square 
and  that  his  cloak  was  gone ;  he  began  to  shout,  but  his 
voice  did  not  appear  to  reach  to  the  outskirts  of  the 
square.  In  despair,  but  without  ceasing  to  shout,  he 
started  at  a  run  across  the  square,  straight  toward  the 
watch-box,  beside  which  stood  the  watchman,  leaning 
on  his  halberd,  and  apparently  curious  to  know  what 
kind  of  a  customer  was  running  toward  him  and 
shouting.  Akakiy  Akakievitch  ran  up  to  him,  and 
began  in  a  sobbing  voice  to  shout  that  he  was  asleep 
and  attended  to  nothing,  and  did  not  see  when  a  man 
was  robbed.  The  watchman  replied  that  he  had  seen 
two  men  stop  him  in  the  middle  of  the  square,  but 
supposed  that  they  were  friends  of  his ;  and  that,  in- 
stead of  scolding  vainly,  he  had  better  go  to  the  police 
on  the  morrow,  so  that  they  might  make  a  search  for 
whoever  had  stolen  the  cloak. 

Akakiy  Akakievitch  ran  home  in  complete  disorder; 
his  hair,  which  grew  very  thinly  upon  his  temples  and 
the  back  of  his  head,  wholly  disordered;  his  body, 
arms,  and  legs  covered  with  snow.  The  old  woman, 
who  was  mistress  of  his  lodgings,  on  hearing  a  ter- 
rible knocking,  sprang  hastily  from  her  bed,  and,  witK 
only  one  shoe  on,  ran  to  open  the  door,  pressing  the 
sleeve  of  her  chemise  to  her  bosom  out  of  modesty,' 
but  when  she  had  opened  it  she  fell  back  on  beholding 
Akakiy  Akakievitch  in  such  a  state.  When  he  told 
her  about  the  affair  she  clasped  her  hands,  and  said 


THE  CLOAK  49 

that  he  must  go  straight  to  the  district  chief  of  police, 
for  his  subordinate  would  turn  up  his  nose,  promise 
well,  and  drop  the  matter  there.  The  very  best  thing 
to  do,  therefore,  would  be  to  go  to  the  district  chief, 
whom  she  knew,  because  Finnish  Anna,  her  former 
cook,  was  now  nurse  at  his  house.  She  often  saw  him 
passing  the  house;  and  he  was  at  church  every  Sun- 
day, praying,  but  at  the  same  time  gazing  cheerfully 
at  everybody;  so  that  he  must  be  a  good  man,  judging 
from  all  appearances.  Having  listened  to  this  opin- 
ion, Akakiy  Akakievitch  betook  himself  sadly  to  his 
room ;  and  how  he  spent  the  night  there  any  one  who 
can  put  himself  in  another's  place  may  readily  imagine. 

Early  in  the  morning  he  presented  himself  at  the 
district  chief's;  but  was  told  that  this  official  was 
asleep.  He  went  again  at  ten  and  was  again  informed 
that  he  was  asleep ;  at  eleven,  and  they  said,  "The  su- 
perintendent is  not  at  home;"  at  dinner  time,  and  the 
clerks  in  the  anteroom  would  not  admit  him  on  any 
terms,  and  insisted  upon  knowing  his  business.  So  that 
at  last,  for  once  in  his  life,  Akakiy  Akakievitch  felt  an 
inclination  to  show  some  spirit,  and  said  curtly  that  he 
must  see  the  chief  in  person;  that  they  ought  not  to 
presume  to  refuse  him  entrance;  that  he  came  from 
the  department  of  justice,  and  that  when  he  complained 
of  them,  they  would  see. 

The  clerks  dared  make  no  reply  to  this,  and  one  of 
them  went  to  call  the  chief,  who  listened  to  the  strange 
story  of  the  theft  of  the  coat.  Instead  of  directing  his 
attention  to  the  principal  points  of  the  matter,  he  began 
to  question  Akakiy  Akakievitch:  Why  was  he  going 


50  NIKOLAI  GOGOL 

home  so  late?  Was  he  in  the  habit  of  doing  so, 
or  had  he  been  to  some  disorderly  house?  So  that 
Akakiy  Akakievitch  got  thoroughly  confused,  and  left 
him  without  knowing  whether  the  affair  of  his  cloak 
was  in  proper  train  or  not. 

All  that  day,  for  the  first  time  in  his  life,  he  never 
went  near  the  department.  The  next  day  he  made 
his  appearance,  very  pale,  and  in  his  old  cape,  which 
had  become  even  more  shabby.  The  news  of  the  rob- 
bery of  the  cloak  touched  many;  although  there  were 
some  officials  present  who  never  lost  an  opportunity, 
even  such  a  one  as  the  present,  of  ridiculing  Akakiy 
Akakievitch.  They  decided  to  make  a  collection  for 
him  on  the  spot,  but  the  officials  had  already  spent  a 
great  deal  in  subscribing  for  the  director's  portrait, 
and  for  some  book,  at  the  suggestion  of  the  head  of 
that  division,  who  was  a  friend  of  the  author;  and 
so  the  sum  was  trifling. 

One  of  them,  moved  by  pity,  resolved  to  help  Akakiy 
Akakievitch  with  some  good  advice  at  least,  and  told 
him  that  he  ought  not  to  go  to  the  police,  for  although 
it  might  happen  that  a  police  officer,  wishing  to  win 
the  approval  of  his  superiors,  might  hunt  up  the  cloak 
by  some  means,  still  his  cloak  would  remain  in  the 
possession  of  the  police  if  he  did  not  offer  legal  proof 
that  it  belonged  to  him.  The  best  thing  for  him,  there- 
fore, would  be  to  apply  to  a  certain  prominent  person- 
age; since  this  prominent  personage,  by  entering  into 
relations  with  the  proper  persons,  could  greatly  expe- 
dite the  matter. 

As  there  was  nothing  else  to  be  done,  Akakiy  Aka- 


THE  CLOAK  51 

kievitch  decided  to  go  to  the  prominent  personage. 
What  was  the  exact  official  position  of  the  prominent 
personage  remains  unknown  to  this  day.  The  reader 
must  know  that  the  prominent  personage  had  but  re- 
cently become  a  prominent  personage,  having  up  to 
that  time  been  only  an  insignificant  person.  More- 
over, his  present  position  was  not  considered  prominent 
in  comparison  with  others  still  more  so.  But  there  is 
always  a  circle  of  people  to  whom  what  is  insignifi- 
cant in  the  eyes  of  others  is  important  enough.  More- 
over, he  strove  to  increase  his  importance  by  sundry 
devices ;  for  instance,  he  managed  to  have  the  inferior 
officials  meet  him  on  the  staircase  when  he  entered 
upon  his  service;  no  one  was  to  presume  to  come 
directly  to  him,  but  the  strictest  etiquette  must  be 
observed ;  the  collegiate  recorder  must  make  a  report 
to  the  government  secretary,  the  government  secre- 
tary to  the  titular  councilor,  or  whatever  other  man 
was  proper,  and  all  business  must  come  before  him  in 
this  manner.  In  Holy  Russia  all  is  thus  contaminated 
with  the  love  of  imitation;  every  man  imitates  and 
copies  his  superior.  They  even  say  that  a  certain 
titular  councilor,  when  promoted  to  the  head  of  some 
small  separate  room,  immediately  partitioned  off  a  pri- 
vate room  for  himself,  called  it  the  audience  chamber, 
and  posted  at  the  door  a  lackey  with  red  collar  and 
braid,  who  grasped  the  handle  of  the  door  and  opened 
to  all  comers;  though  the  audience  chamber  would 
hardly  hold  an  ordinary  writing  table. 

The  manners  and  customs  of  the  prominent  person- 
age were  grand  and  imposing,  but  rather  exaggerated. 


62  NIKOLAI  GOGOL 

The  main  foundation  of  his  system  was  strictness. 
"Strictness,  strictness,  and  always  strictness!'*  he  gen- 
erally said ;  and  at  the  last  word  he  looked  significantly 
into  the  face  of  the  person  to  whom  he  spoke.  But 
there  was  no  necessity  for  this,  for  the  half-score  of 
subordinates,  who  formed  the  entire  force  of  the  office, 
were  properly  afraid;  on  catching  sight  of  him  afar 
off,  they  left  their  work,  and  waited,  drawn  up  in  line, 
until  he  had  passed  through  the  room.  His  ordinary 
converse  with  his  inferiors  smacked  of  sternness,  and 
consisted  chiefly  of  three  phrases:  "How  dare  you?" 
"Do  you  know  whom  you  are  speaking  to  ?"  "Do  you 
realize  who  stands  before  you  ?" 

Otherwise  he  was  a  very  kind-hearted  man,  good 
to  his  comrades,  and  ready  to  oblige;  but  the  rank  of 
general  threw  him  completely  off  his  balance.  On 
receiving  any  one  of  that  rank  he  became  confused, 
lost  his  way,  as  it  were,  and  never  knew  what  to  do. 
If  he  chanced  to  be  among  his  equals,  he  was  still  a 
very  nice  kind  of  man,  a  very  good  fellow  in  many 
respects,  and  not  stupid ;  but  the  very  moment  that  he 
found  himself  in  the  society  of  people  but  one  rank 
lower  than  himself,  he  became  silent ;  and  his  situation 
aroused  sympathy,  the  more  so  as  he  felt  himself  that 
he  might  have  been  making  an  incomparably  better 
use  of  his  time.  In  his  eyes  there  was  sometimes  vis- 
ible a  desire  to  join  some  interesting  conversation  or 
group;  but  he  was  kept  back  by  the  thought,  "Would 
it  not  be  a  very  great  condescension  on  his  part? 
Would  it  not  be  familiar?  and  would  he  not  thereby 
lose  his  importance?"  And  in  consequence  of  such 


THE   CLOAK  58 

reflections  he  always  remained  in  the  same  dumb  state, 
uttering  from  time  to  time  a  few  monosyllabic  sounds, 
and  thereby  earning  the  name  of  the  most  wearisome 
of  men. 

To  this  prominent  personage,  Akakiy  Akakievitch 
presented  himself,  and  this  at  the  most  unfavorable 
time  for  himself,  though  opportune  for  the  prominent 
personage.  The  prominent  personage  was  in  his  cab- 
inet, conversing  very  gaily  with  an  old  acquaintance 
and  companion  of  his  childhood,  whom  he  had  not 
seen  for  several  years,  and  who  had  just  arrived, 
when  it  was  announced  to  him  that  a  person  named 
Bashmatchkin  had  come.  He  asked  abruptly:  "Who 
is  he?1'  "Some  official,"  he  was  informed.  "Ah,  he 
can  wait!  this  is  no  time  for  him  to  call,"  said  the 
important  man. 

It  must  be  remarked  here  that  the  important  man 
lied  outrageously :  he  had  said  all  he  had  to  say  to  his 
friend  long  before;  and  the  conversation  had  been  in- 
terspersed for  some  time  with  very  long  pauses,  during 
which  they  merely  slapped  each  other  on  the  leg,  and 
said :  "You  think  so,  Ivan  Abramovitch  ?"  "Just  so, 
Stephan  Varlamovitch !"  Nevertheless,  he  ordered 
that  the  official  should  be  kept  waiting,  in  order  to 
show  his  friend,  a  man  who  had  not  been  in  the  service 
for  a  long  time,  but  had  lived  at  home  in  the  country, 
how  long  officials  had  to  wait  in  his  anteroom,  j 

At  length,  having  talked  himself  completely  out, 
and  more  than  that,  having  had  his  fill  of  pauses,  and 
smoked  a  cigar  in  a  very  comfortable  armchair  with 
reclining  back,  he  suddenly  seemed  to  recollect,  and 


54:  NIKOLAI   GOGOL 

said  to  the  secretary,  who  stood  by  the  door  witH 
papers  of  reports,  "So  it  seems  that  there  is  a  tchinov- 
nik  waiting  to  see  me.  Tell  him  that  he  may  come 
in."  On  perceiving  Akakiy  Akakievitch's  modest  mien 
and  his  worn  undress  uniform,  he  turned  abruptly  to 
him  and  said :  "What  do  you  want  ?"  in  a  curt,  hard 
voice,  which  he  had  practised  in  his  room  in  private, 
and  before  the  looking-glass,  for  a  whole  week  before 
being  raised  to  his  present  rank. 

Akakiy  Akakievitch,  who  was  already  imbued  with 
a  due  amount  of  fear,  became  somewhat  confused; 
and,  as  well  as  his  tongue  would  permit,  explained, 
with  a  rather  more  frequent  addition  than  usual  of  the 
word  "that,"  that  his  cloak  was  quite  new  and  had 
been  stolen  in  the  most  inhuman  manner;  that  he  had 
applied  to  him  in  order  that  he  might,  in  some  wray, 
by  his  intermediation — that  he  might  enter  into  cor- 
respondence with  the  chief  of  police,  and  find  the  cloak. 

For  some  inexplicable  reason  this  conduct  seemed 
familiar  to  the  prominent  personage.  "What,  my  dear 
sir!"  he  said  abruptly,  "are  you  not  acquainted  with 
etiquette?  Where  have  you  come  from?  Don't  you 
know  how  such  matters  are  managed?  You  should 
first  have  entered  a  complaint  about  this  at  the  court 
below :  it  would  have  gone  to  the  head  of  the  depart- 
ment, then  to  the  chief  of  the  division,  then  it  would 
have  been  handed  over  to  the  secretary,  and  the  secre- 
tary would  have  given  it  to  me." 

"But,  your  excellency,"  said  Akakiy  Akakievitch, 
trying  to  collect  his  small  handful  of  wits,  and  con- 
scious at  the  same  time  that  he  was  perspiring  terribly, 


THE  CLOAK  55 

*%  your  excellency,  presumed  to  trouble  you  because 
secretaries — are  an  untrustworthy  race." 

"What,  what,  what !"  said  the  important  personage. 
"Where  did  you  get  such  courage?  Where  did  you 
get  such  ideas?  What  impudence  toward  their  chiefs 
and  superiors  has  spread  among  the  young  genera- 
tion !"  The  prominent  personage  apparently  had  not 
observed  that  Akakiy  Akakievftch  was  already  in  the 
neighborhood  of  fifty.  If  he  could  be  called  a  young 
man,  it  must  have  been  in  comparison  with  some  one 
who  was  seventy.  "Do  you  know  to  whom  you  speak  ? 
Do  you  realize  who  stands  before  you?  Do  you  real- 
ize it  ?  do  you  realize  it  ?  I  ask  you  I"  Then  he  stamped 
his  foot  and  raised  his  voice  to  such  a  pitch  that  it 
would  have  frightened  even  a  different  man  from 
Akakiy  Akakkvitch. 

Akakiy  Akakievitch's  senses  failed  him;  he  stag- 
gered, trembled  in  every  limb,  and,  if  the  porters  had 
not  run  in  to  support  him,  would  have  fallen  to  the 
floor.  They  carried  him  out  insensible.  But  the 
prominent  personage,  gratified  that  the  effect  should 
have  surpassed  his  expectations,  and  quite  intoxicated 
with  the  thought  that  his  word  could  even  deprive  a 
man  of  his  senses,  glanced  side-wise  at  his  friend  in 
order  to  see  how  he  looked  upon  this,  and  perceived, 
not  without  satisfaction,  that  his  friend  was  in  a  most 
uneasy  frame  of  mind,  and  even  beginning,  on  his  part, 
to  feel  a  trifle  frightened. 

Akakiy  Akakievitch  could  not  remember  how  he  de- 
scended the  stairs,  and  got  into  the  street.  He  felt 
neither  his  hands  nor  feet.  Never  in  his  life  had  he 


56  NIKOLAI   GOGOL 

been  so  rated  by  any  high  official,  let  alone  a  strange 
one.  He  went  staggering  on  through  the  snowstorm, 
which  was  blowing  in  the  streets,  with  his  mouth  wide 
open,  the  wind,  in  St.  Petersburg  fashion,  darted  upon 
him  from  all  quarters,  and  down  every  cross  street. 
In  a  twinkling  it  had  blown  a  quinsy  into  his  throat, 
and  he  reached  home  unable  to  utter  a  word.  His 
throat  was  swollen,  and  he  lay  down  on  his  bed.  So 
powerful  is  sometimes  a  good  scolding! 

The  next  day  a  violent  fever  showed  itself.  Thanks 
to  the  generous  assistance  of  the  St.  Petersburg  cli- 
mate, the  malady  progressed  more  rapidly  than  could 
have  been  expected;  and  when  the  doctor  arrived,  he 
found,  on  feeling  the  sick  man's  pulse,  that  there  was 
nothing  to  be  done,  except  to  prescribe  a  fomentation, 
so  that  the  patient  might  not  be  left  entirely  without 
the  beneficent  aid  of  medicine ;  but  at  the  same  time  he 
predicted  his  end  in  thirty-six  hours.  After  this  he 
turned  to  the  landlady,  and  said:  "And  as  for  you, 
don't  waste  your  time  on  him:  order  his  pine  coffin 
now,  for  an  oak  one  will  be  too  expensive  for  him." 
Did  Akakiy  Akakievitch  hear  these  fatal  words?  and 
if  he  heard  them,  did  they  produce  any  overwhelming- 
effect  upon  him?  Did  he  lament  the  bitterness  of  his 
life?  We  know  not,  for  he  continued  in  a  delirious 
condition.  Visions  incessantly  appeared  to  him  each 
stranger  than  the  other.  Now  he  saw  Petrovitch  and 
ordered  him  to  make  a  cloak  with  some  traps  for  rob- 
bers who  seemed  to  him  to  be  always  under  the  bed; 
and  cried  every  moment  to  the  landlady  to  pull  one  of 
them  from  under  his  coverlet.  Then  he  inquired  why 


THE   CLOAK  57 

his  old  mantle  hung  before  him  when  he  had  a  new 
cloak.  Next  he  fancied  that  he  was  standing  before 
the  prominent  person  listening  to  a  thorough  setting- 
down  and  saying :  "Forgive  me,  your  excellency !"  but 
at  last  he  began  to  curse,  uttering  the  most  horrible 
words,  so  that  his  aged  landlady  crossed  herself,  never 
in  her  life  having  heard  anything  of  the  kind  from 
him,  the  more  so,  as  those  words  followed  directly 
after  the  words  "your  excellency."  Later  on  he  talked 
utter  nonsense,  of  which  nothing  could  be  made:  all 
that  was  evident  being  that  his  incoherent  words  and 
thoughts  hovered  ever  about  one  thing,  his  cloak. 

At  length  poor  Akakiy  Akakievitch  breathed  his  last 
They  sealed  up  neither  his  room  nor  his  effects,  be- 
cause, in  the  first  place,  there  were  no  heirs,  and,  in 
the  second,  there  was  very  little  to  inherit  beyond  a 
bundle  of  goose-quills,  a  quire  of  white  official  paper, 
three  pairs  of  socks,  two  or  three  buttons  which  had 
burst  off  his  trousers,  and  the  mantle  already  known 
to  the  reader.  To  whom  all  this  fell,  God  knows.  I 
confess  that  the  person  who  told  me  this  tale  took  no 
interest  in  the  matter.  They  carried  Akakiy  Akakie- 
vitch out,  and  buried  him. 

And  St.  Petersburg  was  left  without  Akakiy  Akakie- 
vitch, as  though  he  had  never  lived  there.  A  being 
disappeared,  who  was  protected  by  none,  dear  to  none, 
interesting  to  none,  and  who  never  even  attracted  to 
himself  the  attention  of  those  students  of  human 
nature,  who  omit  no  opportunity  of  thrusting  a  pin 
through  a  common  fly,  and  examining  it  under  the 
microscope.  A  being  who  bore  meekly  the  jibes  of 


68  NIKOLAI  GOGOL 

the  department,  and  went  to  his  grave  without  having 
done  one  unusual  deed,  but  to  whom,  nevertheless,  at 
the  close  of  his  life,  appeared  a  bright  visitant  in  the 
form  of  a  cloak,  which  momentarily  cheered  his  poor 
life,  and  upon  whom,  thereafter,  an  intolerable  misfor- 
tune descended,  just  as  it  descends  upon  the  heads  of 
the  mighty  of  this  world ! 

Several  days  after  his  death,  the  porter  was  sent 
from  the  department  to  his  lodgings  with  an  order  for 
him  to  present  himself  there  immediately;  the  chief 
commanding  it.  But  the  porter  had  to  return  unsuc- 
cessful, with  the  answer  that  he  could  not  come;  and 
to  the  question,  "Why?"  replied,  "Well,  because  he 
is  dead!  he  was  buried  four  days  ago/'  In  this  man- 
ner did  they  hear  of  Akakiy  Akakievitch's  death  at  the 
department;  and  the  next  day  a  new  official  sat  in  his 
place,  with  a  handwriting  by  no  means  so  upright,  but 
more  inclined  and  slanting. 

But  who  could  have  imagined  that  this  was  not 
really  the  end  of  Akakiy  Akakievitch,  that  he  was  des- 
tined to  raise  a  commotion  after  death,  as  if  in  com- 
pensation for  his  utterly  insignificant  life?  But  so  it 
happened,  and  our  poor  story  unexpectedly  gains  a 
fantastic  ending. 

A  rumor  suddenly  spread  through  St.  Petersburg 
that  a  dead  man  had  taken  to  appearing  on  the  Kalin- 
kin  Bridge  and  its  vicinity,  at  night,  in  the  form  of  a 
tchinovnik  seeking  a  stolen  cloak,  and  that,  under  the 
pretext  of  its  being  the  stolen  cloak,  he  dragged,  with- 
out regard  to  rank  or  calling,  every  one's  cloak  from 
his  shoulders,  be  it  catskin,  beaver,  fox,  bear,  sable ;  in 


THE  CLOAK  59 

a  word,  every  sort  of  fur  and  skin  whicH  men  adopted 
for  their  covering.  One  of  the  department  officials 
saw  the  dead  man  with  his  own  eyes,  and  immediately 
recognized  in  him  Akakiy  Akakievitch.  This,  how- 
ever, inspired  him  with  such  terror  that  he  ran  off  with 
all  his  might,  and  therefore  did  not  scan  the  dead  man 
closely,  but  only  saw  how  the  latter  threatened  him 
from  afar  with  his  finger.  Constant  complaints  poured 
in  from  all  quarters,  of  those  who  were  exposed  to  the 
danger  of  a  cold,  on  account  of  the  frequent  dragging 
off  of  their  cloaks. 

Arrangements  were  made  by  the  police  to  catch  the 
Corpse,  alive  or  dead,  at  any  cost,  and  punish  him  as  an 
example  to  others,  in  the  most  severe  manner.  In  this 
they  nearly  succeeded;  for  a  watchman,  on  guard  in 
Kirushkin  Alley,  caught  the  corpse  by  the  collar  on 
the  very  scene  of  his  evil  deeds,  when  attempting  to 
pull  off  the  frieze  cloak  of  a  retired  musician.  Having 
seized  him  by  the  collar,  he  summoned,  with  a  shout, 
two  of  his  comrades,  whom  he  enjoined  to  hold  him 
fast,  while  he  himself  felt  for  a  moment  in  his  boot, 
in  order  to  draw  out  his  snuff-box,  and  refresh  his 
frozen  nose.  But  the  snuff  was  of  a  sort  which  even 
a  corpse  could  not  endure.  The  watchman,  having 
closed  his  right  nostril  with  his  finger,  had  no  sooner 
succeeded  in  holding  half  a  handful  up  to  the  left  than 
the  corpse  sneezed  so  violently  that  he  completely  filled 
the  eyes  of  all  three.  While  they  raised  their  hands  to 
wipe  them,  the  dead  man  vanished  completely,  so  that 
they  positively  did  not  know  whether  they  had  actually 
had  him  in  their  grip  at  all.  Thereafter  the  watchmen 


60  NIKOLAI  GOGOL 

conceived  such  a  terror  of  dead  men  that  they  were 
afraid  even  to  seize  the  living,  and  only  screamed  from 
a  distance :  "Hey,  there !  go  your  way !"  So  the  dead 
tchinovnik  began  to  appear,  even  beyond  the  Kalinkin 
Bridge,  causing  no  little  terror  to  all  timid  people. 

But  we  have  totally  neglected  that  certain  promi- 
nent personage,  who  may  really  be  considered  as  the 
cause  of  the  fantastic  turn  taken  by  this  true  history. 
First  of  all,  justice  compels  us  to  say  that  after  the 
departure  of  poor,  annihilated  Akakiy  Akakievitch,  he 
felt  something  like  remorse.  Suffering  was  unpleasant 
to  him,  for  his  heart  was  accessible  to  many  good  im- 
pulses, in  spite  of  the  fact  that  his  rank  often  prevented 
his  showing  his  true  self.  As  soon  as  his  friend  had 
left  his  cabinet  he  began  to  think  about  poor  Akakiy 
Akakievitch.  And  from  that  day  forth  poor  Akakiy 
Akakievitch,  who  could  not  bear  up  under  an  official 
reprimand,  recurred  to  his  mind  almost  every  day. 
The  thought  troubled  him  to  such  an  extent  that  a 
week  later  he  even  resolved  to  send  an  official  to  him, 
to  learn  whether  he  really  could  assist  him;  and  when 
it  was  reported  to  him  that  Akakiy  Akakievitch  had 
died  suddenly  of  fever,  he  was  startled,  harkened  to 
the  reproaches  of  his  conscience,  and  was  out  of  sorts 
for  the  whole  day. 

Wishing  to  divert  his  mind  in  some  way,  and  drive 
away  the  disagreeable  impression,  he  set  out  that  even- 
ing for  one  of  his  friends'  houses,  where  he  found 
quite  a  large  party  assembled.  What  was  better, 
nearly  every  one  was  of  the  same  rank  as  himself, 
so  that  he  need  not  feel  in  the  least  constrained.  This 


THE   CLOAK  61 

had  a  marvelous  effect  upon  his  mental  state.  He 
grew  expansive,  made  himself  agreeable  in  conversa- 
tion, in  short,  he  passed  a  delightful  evening.  After 
supper  he  drank  a  couple  of  glasses  of  champagne — 
not  a  bad  recipe  for  cheerfulness,  as  every  one  knows. 
The  champagne  inclined  him  to  various  adventures; 
and  he  determined  not  to  return  home,  but  to  go  and 
see  a  certain  well-known  lady,  of  German  extraction, 
Karolina  Ivanovna,  a  lady,  it  appears,  with  whom  he 
was  on  a  very  friendly  footing. 

It  must  be  mentioned  that  the  prominent  personage 
was  no  longer  a  young  man,  but  a  good  husband,  and 
respected  father  of  a  family.  Two  sons,  one  of  whom 
was  already  in  the  service;  and  a  good-looking,  six- 
teen-year-old daughter,  with  a  rather  retrousse  but 
pretty  little  nose,  came  every  morning  to  kiss  his  hand, 
and  say :  "Bon  jour,  papa."  His  wife,  a  still  fresh  and 
good-looking  woman,  first  gave  him  her  hand  to  kiss, 
and  then,  reversing  the  procedure,  kissed  his.  But  the 
prominent  personage,  though  perfectly  satisfied  in  his 
domestic  relations,  considered  it  stylish  to  have  a  friend 
in  another  quarter  of  the  city.  This  friend  was  scarcely 
prettier  or  younger  than  his  wife;  but  there  are  such 
puzzles  in  the  world,  and  it  is  not  our  place  to  judge 
them.  So  the  important  personage  descended  the 
stairs,  stepped  into  his  sledge,  said  to  the  coachman, 
"To  Karolina  Ivanovna's,"  and,  wrapping  himself  lux- 
uriously in  his  warm  cloak,  found  himself  in  that  de- 
lightful frame  of  mind  than  which  a  Russian  can 
conceive  nothing  better,  namely,  when  you  think  of 
nothing  yourself,  yet  when  the  thoughts  creep  into 


62  NIKOLAI  GOGOL 

-your  mind  of  their  own  accord,  each  more  agreeable 
than  the  other,  giving  you  no  trouble  either  to  drive 
them  away  or  seek  them.  Fully  satisfied,  he  recalled 
all  the  gay  features  of  the  evening  just  passed,  and  all 
the  mots  which  had  made  the  little  circle  laugh.  Many 
of  them  he  repeated  in  a  low  voice,  and  found  them 
quite  as  funny  as  before;  so  it  is  not  surprising  that 
he  should  laugh  heartily  at  them.  Occasionally,  how- 
ever, he  was  interrupted  by  gusts  of  wind,  which,  com- 
ing suddenly,  God  knows  whence  or  why,  cut  his  face, 
drove  masses  of  snow  into  it,  filled  out  his  cloak-collar 
like  a  sail,  or  suddenly  blew  it  over  his  head  with  super- 
natural force,  and  thus  caused  him  constant  trouble  to 
disentangle  himself. 

Suddenly  the  important  personage  felt  some  one 
clutch  him  firmly  by  the  collar.  Turning  round,  he 
perceived  a  man  of  short  stature,  in  an  old,  worn 
uniform,  and  recognized,  not  without  terror,  Akakiy 
Akakievitch.  The  official's  face  was  white  as  snow, 
and  looked  just  like  a  corpse's.  But  the  horror  of 
the  important  personage  transcended  all  bounds  when 
he  saw  the  dead  man's  mouth  open,  and,  with  a  terri- 
ble odor  of  the  grave,  give  vent  to  the  following  re- 
marks: "Ah,  here  you  are  at  last!  I  have  you,  that 
— by  the  collar!  I  need  your  cloak;  you  took  no 
trouble  about  mine,  but  reprimanded  me;  so  now  give 
up  your  own." 

The  pallid  prominent  personage  almost  died  of 
fright.  Brave  as  he  was  in  the  office  and  in  the 
presence  of  inferiors  generally,  and  although,  at  the 
sight  of  his  manly  form  and  appearance,  every  one 


THE  CLOAK  63 

said,  "Ugh!  how  much  character  he  has!"  at  this 
crisis,  he,  like  many  possessed  of  a  heroic  exterior, 
experienced  such  terror  that,  not  without  cause,  he 
began  to  fear  an  attack  of  illness.  He  flung  his  cloak 
hastily  from  his  shoulders  and  shouted  to  his  coach- 
man in  an  unnatural  voice:  "Home  at  full  speed!" 
The  coachman,  hearing  the  tone  which  is  generally 
employed  at  critical  moments,  and  even  accompanied 
by  something  much  more  tangible,  drew  his  head 
down  between  his  shoulders  in  case  of  an  emergency, 
flourished  his  whip,  and  flew  on  like  an  arrow.  In  a 
little  more  than  six  minutes  the  prominent  personage 
was  at  the  entrance  of  his  own  house.  Pale,  thor- 
oughly scared,  and  cloakless,  he  went  home  instead  of 
to  Karolina  Ivanovna's,  reached  his  room  somehow 
or  other,  and  passed  the  night  in  the  direst  distress; 
so  that  the  next  morning  over  their  tea  his  daughter 
said:  "You  are  very  pale  to-day,  papa."  But  papa 
remained  silent,  and  said  not  a  word  to  any  one  of 
what  had  happened  to  him,  where  he  had  been,  or 
where  he  had  intended  to  go. 

This  occurrence  made  a  deep  impression  upon  him. 
He  even  began  to  say :  "How  dare  you  ?  do  you  realize 
who  stands  before  you?"  less  frequently  to  the  under- 
officials,  and,  if  he  did  utter  the  words,  it  was  only 
after  first  having  learned  the  bearings  of  the  matter. 
But  the  most  noteworthy  point  was  that  from  that  day 
forward  the  apparition  of  the  dead  tchinovnik  ceased 
to  be  seen.  Evidently  the  prominent  personage's  cloak 
just  fitted  his  shoulders;  at  all  events,  no  more  in- 
stances of  his  dragging  cloaks  from  people's  shoulders 
4— VOL.  i 


64  THE  CLOAK 

were  heard  of.  But  many  active  and  apprehensive 
persons  could  by  no  means  reassure  themselves,  and 
asserted  that  the  dead  tchinovnik  still  showed  himself 
in  distant  parts  of  the  city. 

In  fact,  one  watchman  in  Kolomna  saw  with  his 
own  eyes  the  apparition  come  from  behind  a  house. 
But  being  rather  weak  of  body,  he  dared  not  arrest 
him,  but  followed  him  in  the  dark,  until,  at  length,  the 
apparition  looked  round,  paused,  and  inquired :  "What 
do  you  want?"  at  the  same  time  showing  such  a  fist 
as  is  never  seen  on  living  men.  The  watchman  said : 
"It's  of  no  consequence,"  and  turned  back  instantly. 
But  the  apparition  was  much  too  tall,  wore  huge  mus- 
taches, and,  directing  its  steps  apparently  toward  the 
Obukhoff  Bridge,  disappeared  in  the  darkness  of  the 
night. 


THE    RENDEZVOUS 

AND 

THE    COUNTING-HOUSE 

— __ — —      •  •  I..— 

BY    IVAN    TURGENEV 


The  greatest  of  Russian  authors  was  born 
in  1818,  and,  expatriated  from  Russia,  died  in 
the  suburbs  of  Paris  in  1883.  His  literary  method 
reversed  the  usual  process .  The  plot  of  a  story  was 
something  he  never  thought  of.  His  short  stories 
are  wonderful  character  drawings  of  individuals 
or  groups  that  show  a  complete,  a  brooding  absorp- 
tion in  his  subjects.  The  spirit  of  the  great  Slav 
race  lives  in  his  work,  and  though  his  stories  are 
sombre  his  characters  have  a  vitality  that  only 
genius  can  give.  An  aristocrat,  and  possessed 
of  some  means,  Turgenev's  stories  concern  them- 
selves with  the  old  racial  traits  of  character,  but 
do  not  touch  on  the  revolutionary  element. 


THE    RENDEZVOUS 

BV    IVAN    TURGENEV 

I  WAS  sitting  in  a  birch  grove  in  autumn,  near  the 
middle  of  September.  It  had  been  drizzling  ever 
since  morning ;  occasionally  the  sun  shone  warmly 
— the  weather  was  changeable.  Now  the  sky  was 
overcast  with  watery  white  clouds,  now  it  suddenly 
cleared  up  for  an  instant,  and  then  the  bright,  soft 
azure,  like  a  beautiful  eye,  appeared  from  beyond  the 
dispersed  clouds.  I  was  sitting  looking  about  me  and 
listening.  The  leaves  were  slightly  rustling  over  my 
head ;  and  by  their  very  rustle  one  could  tell  what  sea- 
son of  the  year  it  was.  It  was  not  the  gay,  laughing 
palpitation  of  spring;  not  a  soft  whispering,  nor  the 
lingering  chatter  of  summer,  nor  the  timid  and  cold 
lisping  of  late  autumn,  but  a  barely  audible,  drowsy 
prattle.  A  faint  breeze  was  whisking  over  the  tree- 
tops.  The  interior  of  the  grove,  moist  from  the  rain, 
was  forever  changing,  as  the  sun  shone  or  hid  beyond 
the  clouds;  now  the  grove  was  all  illuminated  as  if 
everything  in  it  had  burst  into  a  smile;  the  trunks  of 
the  birch  trees  suddenly  assumed  the  soft  reflection 
of  white  silk;  the  small  leaves  which  lay  scattered  on 
the  ground  all  at  once  became  variegated  and  flashed 
up  like  red  gold;  and  the  pretty  stalks  of  the  tall, 
branchy  ferns,  already  tinted  in  their  autumn  hue,  re- 

Translated  by  Herman  Bernstein.    Copyright,  1907,  by  P.  F.  Collier  &  Son. 

(67) 


68  IVAN  TURGENEV 

sembling  the  color  of  overripe  grapes,  appeared  here 
and  there  tangling  and  crossing  one  another.  Now 
again  everything  suddenly  turned  blue;  the  bright 
colors  died  out  instantaneously,  the  birch  trees  stood 
all  white,  lustreless,  like  snow  which  had  not  yeV 
been  touched  by  the  coldly  playing  rays  of  the  winter 
sun — and  stealthily,  slyly,  a  drizzling  rain  began  to 
sprinkle  and  whisper  over  the  forest.  The  leaves  on 
the  birches  were  almost  all  green  yet,  though  they 
had  turned  somewhat  pale;  only  here  and  there  stood 
a  solitary  young  little  birch,  all  red  or  all  golden,  and 
one  should  have  seen  how  brightly  these  birches 
flushed  in  the  sun  when  its  rays  suddenly  appeared 
gliding  and  flashing  through  the  dense  net  of  the  thin 
branches  which  had  just  been  washed  around  by  the 
sparkling  rain.  Not  a  single  bird  was  heard;  all  had 
found  shelter,  and  were  silent;  only  rarely  the  mock- 
ing voice  of  the  bluebird  sang  out  like  a  little  steel 
bell.  Before  stopping  in  this  birch  forest  I  passed 
with  my  dog  through  a  poplar  grove.  I  confess  I  am 
not  very  fond  of  the  poplar  tree  with  its  pale  lilac- 
colored  trunk  and  its  grayish-green,  metallic  leaves, 
which  it  lifts  high  and  spreads  in  the  air  like  a  trem- 
bling fan — I  do  not  like  the  constant  shaking  of  its 
round,  untidy  leaves,  which  are  so  awkwardly  attached 
to  long  stems.  The  poplar  is  pretty  only  on  certain 
summer  evenings  when,  rising  high  amid  the  low 
shrubbery,  it  stands  against  the  red  rays  of  the  set- 
ting sun,  shining  and  trembling,  bathed  from  root  to 
top  in  uniform  yellowish  purple — or  when,  on  a  clear 
windy  day,  it  rocks  noisily,  lisping  against  the  blue 


THE  RENDEZVOUS  69 

sky,  and  each  leaf  seems  as  if  eager  to  tear  itself 
away,  to  fly  and  hurry  off  into  the  distance.  But  in 
general  I  do  not  like  this  tree,  and,  therefore,  not  stop- 
ping to  rest  in  the  poplar  grove,  I  made  my  way  to 
the  birch  forest,  and  seated  myself  under  a  tree  whose 
branches  started  near  the  ground,  and  thus  could  pro- 
tect me  from  the  rain.  Having  admired  the  surround- 
ing view,  I  fell  asleep — I  slept  that  tranquil,  sweet 
sleep  which  is  familiar  to  hunters  only. 

I  can  not  say  how  long  I  slept,  but  when  I  opened 
my  eyes  the  entire  interior  of  the  forest  was  filled 
with  sunshine,  and  everywhere  the  bright  blue  sky 
was  flashing  through  the  cheerfully  droning  leaves; 
the  clouds  disappeared,  driven  asunder  by  the  wind 
which  had  begun  to  play;  the  weather  was  clear  now, 
and  one  felt  in  the  air  that  peculiar,  dry  freshness 
which,  filling  the  heart  with  a  certain  vigorous  sensa- 
tion, almost  always  predicts  a  quiet,  clear  night  after 
a  rainy  day.  I  was  about  to  rise  and  try  my  luck  at 
hunting  again,  when  my  eyes  suddenly  fell  on  a  mo- 
tionless human  figure.  I  gazed  at  it  fixedly;  it  was 
a  young  peasant  girl.  She  was  sitting  some  twenty 
feet  away  from  me,  her  head  bowed  pensively  and  her 
hands  dropped  on  her  knees;  in  one  hand,  which  was 
half  open,  lay  a  heavy  bunch  of  field  flowers,  and  every 
time  she  breathed  the  flowers  were  softly  gliding  over 
her  checkered  skirt.  A  clear  white  shirt,  buttoned  at 
the  neck  and  the  wrists,  fell  in  short,  soft  folds  about 
her  waist;  large  yellow  beads  were  hanging  down 
from  her  neck  on  her  bosom  in  two  rows.  She  was 
not  at  all  bad-looking.  Her  heavy  fair  hair,  of  a 


70  IVAN  TURGENEV 

beautiful  ash  color,  parted  in  two  neatly  combed  half- 
circles  from  under  a  narrow,  dark-red  head-band, 
which  was  pulled  down  almost  to  her  ivory-white 
forehead;  the  rest  of  her  face  was  slightly  tanned 
with  the  golden  sunburn  peculiar  to  a  tender  skin.  I 
could  not  see  her  eyes — she  did  not  lift  them;  but  I 
saw  her  thin,  high  eyebrows,  her  long  lashes;  these 
were  moist,  and  on  her  cheek  gleamed  a  dried-up  tear- 
drop, which  had  stopped  near  her  somewhat  pale  lips. 
Her  entire  small  head  was  very  charming;  even  her 
somewhat  thick  and  round  nose  did  not  spoil  it.  I 
liked  especially  the  expression  of  her  face;  it  was  so 
simple  and  gentle,  so  sad  and  so  full  of  childish  per- 
plexity before  her  own  sadness.  She  was  apparently 
waiting  for  some  one.  Something  cracked  faintly  in 
the  forest.  Immediately  she  raised  her  head  and 
looked  around;  her  eyes  flashed  quickly  before  me  in 
the  transparent  shade — they  were  large,  bright,  and 
shy  like  a  deer's.  She  listened  for  a  few  seconds,  not 
moving  her  wide-open  eyes  from  the  spot  whence  the 
faint  sound  had  come;  she  heaved  a  sigh,  turned  her 
head  slowly,  bent  down  still  lower  and  began  to  ex- 
amine the  flowers.  Her  eyelids  turned  red,  her  lips 
quivered  bitterly  and  a  new  teardrop  rolled  down 
from  under  her  heavy  eyelashes,  stopping  and  spark- 
ling on  her  cheek.  Thus  quite  a  long  while  passed; 
the  poor  girl  did  not  stir — only  occasionally  she  moved 
her  hands  and  listened — listened  all  the  time.  Some- 
thing cracked  once  more  in  the  forest — she  started. 
This  time  the  noise  did  not  stop,  it  was  becoming 
more  distinct,  it  was  nearing — at  last  firm  footsteps 


THE  RENDEZVOUS  71 

were  heard.  She  straightened  herself,  and  it  seemed  as 
if  she  lost  her  courage,  for  her  eyes  began  to  quiver. 
The  figure  of  a  man  appeared  through  the  jungle. 
She  looked  fixedly,  suddenly  flushed,  and,  smiling 
joyously  and  happily,  seemed  about  to  rise,  but  she 
immediately  cast  down  her  head  again,  turned  pale, 
confused — only  then  she  lifted  her  quivering,  almost 
prayerful,  eyes  to  the  man  as  he  paused  beside  her. 

I  looked  at  him  from  my  hiding-place  with  curi- 
osity. I  confess  he  did  not  produce  a  pleasant  impres- 
sion upon  me.  He  was,  by  all  appearances,  a  spoiled 
valet  of  some  rich  young  man.  His  clothes  betokened 
a  claim  to  taste  and  smart  carelessness.  He  wore  a 
short  top-coat  of  bronze  color,  which  evidently  be- 
longed to  his  master,  and  which  was  buttoned  up  to 
the  very  top;  he  had  on  a  pink  necktie  with  lilac-col- 
ored edges;  and  his  black  velvet  cap,  trimmed  with 
gold  stripes,  was  pulled  over  his  very  eyebrows.  The 
round  collar  of  his  white  shirt  propped  his  ears  up 
and  cut  his  cheeks  mercilessly,  and  the  starched  cuffs 
covered  his  hands  up  to  his  red,  crooked  fingers, 
which  were  ornamented  with  silver  and  gold  rings, 
set  with  forget-me-nots  of  turquoise.  His  red,  fresh, 
impudent  face  belonged  to  those  countenances  which, 
as  far  as  I  have  observed,  are  almost  always  repul- 
sive to  men,  but,  unfortunately,  are  often  admired  by 
women.  Apparently  trying  to  give  an  expression  of 
contempt  and  of  weariness  to  his  rough  features,  he 
was  forever  closing  his  small,  milky-gray  eyes,  knitting 
his  brows,  lowering  the  corners  of  his  lips,  yawning 
forcedly,  and,  with  careless,  although  not  too  clever, 


72  IVAN  TURGENEV 

ease,  now  adjusting  his  reddish,  smartly  twisted 
temple-curls,  now  fingering  the  yellow  hair  which 
bristled  upon  his  thick  upper  lip — in  a  word,  he  was 
making  an  insufferable  display  of  himself.  He  started 
to  do  this  as  soon  as  he  noticed  the  young  peasant 
girl  who  was  awaiting  him.  He  advanced  to  her 
slowly,  with  large  strides,  then  stood  for  a  while, 
twitched  his  shoulders,  thrust  both  hands  into  the 
pockets  of  his  coat,  and,  casting  a  quick  and  indif- 
ferent glance  at  the  poor  girl,  sank  down  on  the 
ground. 

"Well?"  he  began,  continuing  to  look  aside,  shaking 
his  foot  and  yawning.  "Have  you  waited  long?" 

The  girl  could  not  answer  him  at  once. 

"Long,  Victor  Alexandrich,"  she  said  at  last,  in 
a  scarcely  audible  voice. 

"Ah!"  He  removed  his  cap,  majestically  passed 
his  hand  over  his  thick,  curly  hair  whose  roots 
started  almost  at  his  eyebrows,  and,  looking  around 
with  dignity,  covered  his  precious  head  again  cau- 
tiously. "And  I  almost  forgot  all  about  it.  Be- 
sides, you  see,  it's  raining."  He  yawned  again. 
"I  have  a  lot  of  work  to  do;  you  can't  look  after 
everything,  and  he  is  yet  scolding.  We  are  leaving 
to-morrow — " 

"To-morrow?"  uttered  the  girl,  and  fixed  a  fright- 
ened look  upon  him. 

"To-morrow —  Come,  come,  come,  please,"  he  re- 
plied quickly,  vexed,  noticing  that  she  quivered,  and 
bowed  her  head  in  silence.  "Please,  Akulina,  don't 
cry.  You  know  I  can't  bear  it"  (and  he  twitched 


THE  RENDEZVOUS  73 

his  flat  nose).  "If  you  don't  stop,  I'll  leave  you  right 
away.  What  nonsense — to  whimper!'* 

"Well,  I  shan't,  I  shan't,"  said  Akulina  hastily, 
swallowing  the  tears  with  an  effort.  "So  you're 
going  away  to-morrow?"  she  added,  after  a  brief 
silence.  "When  will  it  please  God  to  have  me  meet 
you  again,  Victor  Alexandrich  ?" 

"We'll  meet,  we'll  meet  again.  If  it  isn't  next  year, 
it'll  be  later.  My  master,  it  seems,  wants  to  enter  the 
service  in  St.  Petersburg,"  he  went  on,  pronouncing 
the  words  carelessly  and  somewhat  indistinctly.  "And 
it  may  be  that  we'll  go  abroad." 

"You  will  forget  me,  Victor  Alexandrich,"  said 
Akulina  sadly. 

"No — why  should  I  ?  I'll  not  forget  you,  only  you 
had  rather  be  sensible;  don't  make  a  fool  of  yourself; 
obey  your  father —  And  I'll  not  forget  you —  Oh, 
no;  oh,  no."  And  he  stretched  himself  calmly  and 
yawned  again. 

"Do  not  forget  me,  Victor  Alexandrich,"  she  re- 
sumed in  a  beseeching  voice.  "I  have  loved  you  so 
much,  it  seems — all,  it  seems,  for  you —  You  tell 
me  to  obey  father,  Victor  Alexandrich —  How  am 
I  to  obey  my  father — ?" 

"How's  that?"  He  pronounced  these  words  as  if 
from  the  stomach,  lying  on  his  back  and  holding  his 
hands  under  his  head. 

"Why,  Victor  Alexandrich — you  know  it  your- 
self—" 

She  fell  silent.  Victor  fingered  his  steel  watch- 
chain. 


74  IVAN  TURGENEV 

"Akulina,  you  are  not  a  foolish  girl/'  he  said  at 
last,  "therefore  don't  talk  nonsense.  It's  for  your 
own  good,  do  you  understand  me?  Of  course,  you 
are  not  foolish,  you're  not  altogether  a  peasant,  so  to 
say,  and  your  mother  wasn't  always  a  peasant  either. 
Still,  you  are  without  education — therefore  you  must 
obey  when  you  are  told  to." 

"But  it's  terrible,  Victor  Alexandrich." 

"Oh,  what  nonsense,  my  dear — what  is  she  afraid 
of!  What  is  that  you  have  there,"  he  added,  mov- 
ing closer  to  her,  "flowers  ?" 

"Flowers,"  replied  Akulina  sadly.  "I  have  picked 
some  field  tansies,"  she  went  on,  with  some  animation. 
"They're  good  for  the  calves.  And  here  I  have  some 
marigolds — for  scrofula.  Here,  look,  what  a  pretty 
flower!  I  haven't  seen  such  a  pretty  flower  in  all  my 
life.  Here  are  forget-me-nots,  and — and  these  I  have 
picked  for  you,"  she  added,  taking  from  under  the 
tansies  a  small  bunch  of  cornflowers,  tied  around  with 
a  thin  blade  of  grass;  "do  you  want  them?" 

Victor  stretched  out  his  hand  lazily,  took  the 
flowers,  smelt  them  carelessly,  and  began  to  turn  them 
around  in  his  fingers,  looking  up  with  thoughtful 
importance.  Akulina  gazed  at  him.  There  was  so 
much  tender  devotion,  reverent  obedience,  and  love  in 
her  pensive  eyes.  She  at  once  feared  him,  and  yet  she 
dared  not  cry,  and  inwardly  she  bade  him  farewell, 
and  admired  him  for  the  last  time;  and  he  lay  there, 
stretched  out  like  a  sultan,  and  endured  her  admira- 
tion with  magnanimous  patience  and  condescension. 
I  confess  I  was  filled  with  indignation  as  I  looked 


THE  RENDEZVOUS  75 

at  his  red  face,  which  betrayed  satisfied  selfishness 
through  his  feigned  contempt  and  indifference.  Aku- 
lina  was  so  beautiful  at  this  moment.  All  her  soul 
opened  before  him  trustingly  and  passionately — it 
reached  out  to  him,  caressed  him,  and  he —  He 
dropped  the  cornflowers  on  the  grass,  took  out  from 
the  side-pocket  of  his  coat  a  round  glass  in  a  bronze 
frame  and  began  to  force  it  into  his  eye;  but  no  mat- 
ter how  hard  he  tried  to  hold  it  with  his  knitted  brow, 
his  raised  cheek,  and  even  with  his  nose,  the  glass 
dropped  out  and  fell  into  his  hands. 

"What's  this?"  asked  Akulina  at  last,  with  surprise. 

"A  lorgnette/'  he  replied  importantly. 

"What  is  it  for?" 

"To  see  better." 

"Let  me  see  it." 

Victor  frowned,  but  gave  her  the  glass. 

"Look  out;  don't  break  it." 

"Don't  be  afraid,  I'll  not  break  it."  She  lifted  it 
timidly  to  her  eye. 

"I  can't  see  anything,"  she  said  naively. 

"Shut  your  eye,"  he  retorted  in  the  tone  of  a  dis- 
satisfied teacher.  She  closed  the  eye  before  which  she 
held  the  glass. 

"Not  that  eye,  not  that  one,  you  fool!  The  other 
one!"  exclaimed  Victor,  and,  not  allowing  her  to 
correct  her  mistake,  he  took  the  lorgnette  away 
from  her. 

Akulina  blushed,  laughed  slightly,  and  turned  away. 

"It  seems  it's  not  for  us." 

"Of  course  not!" 


76  IVAN  TURGENEV 

The  poor  girl  maintained  silence,  and  heaved  a  deep 
sigh. 

"Oh,  Victor  Alexandrich,  how  will  I  get  along 
without  you?"  she  said  suddenly. 

Victor  wiped  the  lorgnette  and  put  it  back  into  his 
pocket. 

"Yes,  yes,"4ie  said  at  last.  "At  first  it  will  really 
be  hard  for  you."  He  tapped  her  on  the  shoulder 
condescendingly;  she  quietly  took  his  hand  from  her 
shoulder  and  kissed  it.  "Well,  yes,  yes,  you  are 
indeed  a  good  girl,"  he  went  on,  with  a  self-satisfied 
smile;  "but  it  can't  be  helped!  Consider  it  yourself! 
My  master  and  I  can't  stay  here,  can  we?  Winter  is 
near,  and  to  pass  the  winter  in  the  country  is  simply 
nasty — you  know  it  yourself.  It's  a  different  thing 
in  St.  Petersburg!  There  are  such  wonders  over 
there  that  you  could  not  imagine  even  in  your  dreams, 
you  silly —  What  houses,  what  streets,  and  society, 
education — it's  something  wonderful! — "  Akulina 
listened  to  him  with  close  attention,  slightly  opening 
her  lips  like  a  child.  "However,"  he  added,  wrig- 
gling on  the  ground,  "why  do  I  say  all  this  to  you? 
You  can't  understand  it  anyway!" 

"Why  not,  Victor  Alexandrich?  I  understood,  I 
understood  everything." 

"Just  think  of  her!" 

Akulina  cast  down  her  eyes. 

"You  did  not  speak  to  me  like  this  before,  Victor 
Alexandrich,"  she  said,  without  lifting  her  eyes. 

"Before?—  Before!  Just  think  of  her!—  Be- 
fore!" he  remarked,  indignantly. 


THE  RENDEZVOUS  77 

Both  grew  silent. 

"However,  it's  time  for  me  to  go,"  said  Victor,  and 
leaned  on  his  elbow,  about  to  rise. 

"Wait  a  little,"  said  Akulina  in  an  imploring  voice. 

"What  for  ?    I  have  already  said  to  you,  Good-by !" 

"Wait,"  repeated  Akulina. 

Victor  again  stretched  himself  on  the  ground  and 
began  to  whistle.  Akulina  kept  looking  at  him  stead- 
fastly. I  could  see  that  she  was  growing  agitated  by 
degrees — her  lips  twitched,  her  pale  cheeks  were  red- 
dening. 

"Victor  Alexandrich,"  she  said  at  last  in  a  broken 
voice,  "it's  a  sin  for  you,  it's  a  sin,  Victor  Alexan- 
drich, by  God!" 

"What's  a  sin?"  he  asked,  knitting  his  brows.  He 
raised  his  head  and  turned  to  her. 

"It's  a  sin,  Victor  Alexandrich.  If  you  would  only 
say  a  £ood  word  to  me  before  leaving — if  you  would 
only  say  one  word  to  me,  miserable  little  orphan  that 
I  am—" 

"But  what  shall  I  say  to  you?" 

"I  don't  know.  You  know  that  better  than  I  do, 
Victor  Alexandrich.  Here  you  are  going  away — if 
you  would  only  say  one  word —  What  have  I  done 
to  deserve  this?" 

"How  strange  you  are!    What  can  I  say?" 

"If  only  one  word — " 

"There  she's  firing  away  one  and  the  same  thing," 
he  muttered  with  vexation,  and  got  up. 

"Don't  be  angry,  Victor  Alexandrich,"  she  added 
hastily,  unable  to  repress  her  tears. 


78  IVAN  TURGENEV 

"I'm  not  angry — only  you  are  foolish —  What  do 
you  want?  I  can't  marry  you!  I  can't,  can  I?  Well, 
then,  what  do  you  want?  What?"  He  stared  at 
her,  as  if  awaiting  an  answer,  and  opened  his  fingers 
wide. 

"I  want  nothing — nothing,"  she  replied,  stammer- 
ing, not  daring  to  outstretch  her  trembling  hands 
to  him,  "but  simply  so,  at  least  one  word,  at  part- 
ing-" 

And  the  tears  began  to  stream  from  her  eyes. 

"Well,  there  you  are,  she's  started  crying,"  said 
Victor  indifferently,  pulling  the  cap  over  his  eyes. 

"I  don't  want  anything,"  she  went  on,  sobbing  and 
covering  her  face  with  her  hands;  "but  how  will  I 
feel  now  at  home,  how  will  I  feel?  And  what  will 
become  of  me,  what  will  become  of  me,  wretched  one 
that  I  am?  They'll  marry  the  poor  little  orphan 
off  to  a  man  she  does  not  like.  My  poor  little 
head!" 

"Keep  on  singing,  keep  on  singing,"  muttered  Vic- 
tor in  a  low  voice,  stirring  restlessly. 

"If  you  only  said  one  word,  just  one:  'Akulina 
—I—'  " 

Sudden  heartrending  sobs  interrupted  her.  She  fell 
with  her  face  upon  the  grass  and  cried  bitterly,  bit- 
terly—  All  her  body  shook  convulsively,  the  back  of 
her  neck  seemed  to  rise —  The  long-suppressed  sor- 
row at  last  burst  forth  in  a  stream  of  tears.  Victor 
stood  a  while  near  her,  then  he  shrugged  his 
shoulders,  turned  around  and  walked  off  with 
large  steps. 


THE   RENDEZVOUS  79 

A  few  moments  went  by.  She  grew  silent,  lifted 
her  head,  looked  around  and  clasped  her  hands;  she 
was  about  to  run  after  him,  but  her  feet  failed  her — 
she  fell  down  on  her  knees.  I  could  not  endure  it 
any  longer  and  rushed  over  to  her;  but  before  she 
had  time  to  look  at  me,  she  suddenly  seemed  to  have 
regained  her  strength — and  with  a  faint  cry  she  rose 
and  disappeared  behind  the  trees,  leaving  the  scattered 
flowers  on  the  ground. 

I  stood  a  while,  picked  up  the  bunch  of  cornflowers, 
and  walked  out  of  the  grove  to  the  field.  The  sun 
was  low  in  the  pale,  clear  sky ;  its  rays  seemed  to  have 
faded  and  turned  cold;  they  did  not  shine  now,  they 
spread  in  an  even,  almost  watery,  light.  There  was 
only  a  half-hour  left  until  evening,  and  twilight  was 
setting  in.  A  violent  wind  was  blowing  fast  toward 
me  across  the  yellow,  dried-up  stubble-field;  the  small 
withered  leaves  were  carried  quickly  past  me  across 
the  road ;  the  side  of  the  grove  which  stood  like  a  wall 
by  the  field  trembled  and  flashed  clearly,  but  not 
brightly;  everywhere  on  the  reddish  grass,  on  the 
blades,  and  the  straw,  innumerable  autumn  cobwebs 
flashed  and  trembled.  I  stopped.  I  began  to  feel 
sad;  it  seemed  a  dismal  fear  of  approaching  winter 
was  stealing  through  the  gay,  though  fresh,  smile  of 
fading  nature.  High  above  me,  a  cautious  raven  flew 
by,  heavily  and  sharply  cutting  the  air  with  his  wings ; 
then  he  turned  his  head,  looked  at  me  sidewise,  and, 
croaking  abruptly,  disappeared  beyond  the  forest;  a 
large  flock  of  pigeons  rushed  past  me  from  a  barn, 
and,  suddenly  whirling  about  in  a  column,  they  came 


80  THE  RENDEZVOUS 

down  and  stationed  themselves  bustlingly  upon  the 
field — a  sign  of  spring  autumn!  Somebody  rode  by 
beyond  the  bare  hillock,  making  much  noise  with  an 
empty  wagon. 

I  returned  home,  but  the  image  of  poor  Akulina  did 
not  leave  my  mind  for  a  long  time,  and  the  corn- 
flowers, long  withered,  are  in  my  possession  to  this 
day. 


THE    COUNTING-HOUSE 

BY   IVAN   TURGENEV 

IT  was  autumn.  For  some  hours  I  had  been  stroll- 
ing across  country  with  my  gun,  and  should  prob- 
ably not  have  returned  till  evening  to  the  tavern 
on  the  Kursk  high-road,  where  my  three-horse  trap 
was  awaiting  me,  had  not  an  exceedingly  fine  and  per- 
sistent rain,  which  had  worried  me  all  day  with  the 
obstinacy  and  ruthlessness  of  some  old  maiden  lady, 
driven  me  at  last  to  seek  at  least  a  temporary  shelter 
somewhere  in  the  neighborhood.  While  I  was  still 
deliberating  in  which  direction  to  go,  my  eye  suddenly 
fell  on  a  low  shanty  near  a  field  sown  with  peas.  I 
went  up  to  the  shanty,  glanced  under  the  thatched  roof, 
and  saw  an  old  man  so  infirm  that  he  reminded  me  at 
once  of  the  dying  goat  Robinson  Crusoe  found  in  some 
cave  on  his  island.  The  old  man  was  squatting  on  his 
heels,  his  little  dim  eyes  half  closed,  while  hurriedly, 
but  carefully,  like  a  hare  (the  poor  fellow  had  not  a 
single  tooth),  he  munched  a  dry,  hard  pea,  incessantly 
rolling  it  from  side  to  side.  He  was  so  absorbed  in 
this  occupation  that  he  did  not  notice  my  entrance. 

"Grandfather !  hey,  grandfather !"  said  I.  He  ceased 
munching,  lifted  his  eyebrows  high,  and  with  an  effort 
opened  his  eyes. 

"What?"  he  mumbled  in  a  broken  voice. 

Translated  by  Constance  Garnett. 


82  IVAN   TURGENEV 

"Where  is  there  a  village  near?"  I  asked. 

The  old  man  fell  to  munching  again.  He  had 
not  heard  me.  I  repeated  my  question  louder  than 
before. 

"A  village? —    But  what  do  you  want?" 

"Why,  shelter  from  the  rain?" 

"What?" 

"Shelter  from  the  rain." 

"Ah!"  He  scratched  his  sunburnt  neck.  "Well, 
now,  you  go,"  he  said  suddenly,  waving  his  hands  in- 
definitely, "so — as  you  go  by  the  copse — see,  as  you 
go — there'll  be  a  road;  you  pass  it  by,  and  keep  right 
on  to  the  right ;  keep  right  on,  keep  right  on,  keep  right 
on —  Well,  there  will  be  Ananyevo.  Or  else  you'd 
go  to  Sitovka." 

I  followed  the  old  man  with  difficulty.  His  mus- 
taches muffled  his  voice,  and  his  tongue  too  did  not 
obey  him  readily. 

"Where  are  you  from  ?"  I  asked  him. 

"What?" 

"Where  are  you  from  ?" 

"Ananyevo." 

"What  are  you  doing  here  ?" 

"I'm  watchman." 

"Why,  what  are  you  watching  ?" 

"The  peas." 

I  could  not  help  smiling. 

"Really!— how  old  are  you?" 

"God  knows." 

"Your  sight's  failing,  I  expect." 

"What?" 


THE  COUNTING-HOUSE  83 

"Your  sight's  failing,  I  daresay?" 
"Yes,  it's  failing.    At  times  I  can  hear  nothing." 
"Then  how  can  you  be  a  watchman,  eh  ?" 
"Oh,  my  elders  know  about  that." 
"Elders !"  I  thought,  and  I  gazed  not  without  com- 
passion at  the  poor  old  man.     He  fumbled  about,  pulled 
out  of  his  bosom  a  bit  of  coarse  bread,  and  began 
sucking  it   like  a   child,   with   difficulty  moving  his 
sunken  cheeks. 

I  walked  in  the  direction  of  the  copse,  turned  to  the 
right,  kept  on,  kept  right  on  as  the  old  man  had  ad- 
vised me,  and  at  last  got  to  a  large  village  with  a 
stone  church  in  the  new  style,  i.  e.,  with  columns,  and 
a  spacious  manor-house,  also  with  columns.  While  still 
some  way  off  I  noticed  through  the  fine  network  of 
falling  rain  a  cottage  with  a  deal  roof,  and  two  chim- 
neys, higher  than  the  others,  in  all  probability  the 
dwelling  of  the  village  elder ;  and  toward  it  I  bent  my 
steps  in  the  hope  of  finding,  in  this  cottage,  a  samovar, 
tea,  sugar,  and  some  not  absolutely  sour  cream.  Es- 
corted by  my  half-frozen  dog,  I  went  up  the  steps  into 
the  outer  room,  opened  the  door,  and  instead  of  the 
usual  appurtenances  of  a  cottage,  I  saw  several  tables, 
heaped  up  with  papers,  two  red  cupboards,  bespattered 
inkstands,  pewter  boxes  of  blotting  sand  weighing  half 
a  hundred-weight,  long  penholders,  and  so  on.  At  one 
of  the  tables  was  sitting  a  young  man  of  twenty  with  a 
swollen,  sickly  face,  diminutive  eyes,  a  greasy-looking 
forehead,  and  long,  straggling  locks  of  hair.  He  was 
dressed,  as  one  would  expect,  in  a  gray  nankeen  coat, 
shiny  with  wear  at  tht  waist  and  the  collar. 


84:          :i  IVAN  TURGENEV 

"What  do  you  want  ?"  he  asked  me,  flinging  his  head 
up  like  a  horse  taken  unexpectedly  by  the  nose. 

"Does  the  bailiff  live  here— or— " 

"This  is  the  principal  office  of  the  manor/'  he  inter- 
rupted. "I'm  the  clerk  on  duty —  Didn't  you  see  the 
sign-board  ?  That's  what  it  was  put  up  for." 

"Where  could  I  dry  my  clothes  here?  Is  there  a 
samovar  anywhere  in  the  village  ?" 

"Samovars,  of  course/'  replied  the  young  man  in  the 
gray  coat  with  dignity ;  "go  to  Father  Timofey's,  or  to 
the  servants'  cottage,  or  else  to  Nazar  Tarasitch,  or  to 
Agrafena,  the  poultry  woman." 

"Who  are  you  taking  to,  you  blockhead  ?  Can't  you 
let  me  sleep,  dummy!"  shouted  a  voice  from  the  next 
room. 

"Here's  a  gentleman's  come  in  to  ask  where  he  can 
dry  himself." 

"What  sort  of  a  gentleman?" 

"I  don't  know.    With  a  dog  and  a  gun." 

A  bedstead  creaked  in  the  next  room.  The  door 
opened,  and  there  came  in  a  stout,  short  man  of  fifty, 
with  a  bull  neck,  goggle  eyes,  extraordinarily  round 
cheeks,  and  his  whole  face  positively  shining  with 
sleekness. 

"What  is  it  you  wish  ?"  he  asked  me. 

"To  dry  my  things." 

"There's  no  place  here." 

"I  didn't  know  this  was  the  counting-house;  I  am 
willing,  though,  to  pay — " 

"Well,  perhaps  it  could  be  managed  here,"  rejoined 
the  fat  man;  "won't  you  come  inside  here?"  He  led 


.  *     THE  COUNTING-HOUSE  85 

me  into  another  room,  but  not  the  one  he  had  come 
from.    "Would  this  do  for  you?" 

"Very  well —    And  could  I  have  tea  and  milk?" 
"Certainly,  at  once.     If  you'll  meantime  take  off 
your  things  and  rest,  the  tea  shall  be  got  ready  this 
minute." 

"Whose  property  is  this?" 
"Madame  Losnyakov's,  Elena  Nikolaevna." 
He  went  out.  I  looked  round:  against  the  parti- 
tion separating  my  room  from  the  office  stood  a  huge 
leather  sofa;  two  high-backed  chairs,  also  covered  in 
leather,  were  placed  on  both  sides  of  the  solitary  win- 
dow which  looked  out  on  the  village  street.  On  the 
walls,  covered  with  a  green  paper  with  pink  patterns 
on  it,  hung  three  immense  oil  paintings.  One  depicted 
a  setter  dog  with  a  blue  collar,  bearing  the  inscription : 
"This  is  my  consolation";  at  the  dog's  feet  flowed  a 
river ;  on  the  opposite  bank  of  the  river  a  hare  of  quite 
disproportionate  size,  with  ears  cocked  up,  was  sitting 
under  a  pine  tree.  In  another  picture  two  old  men 
were  eating  a  melon;  behind  the  melon  was  visible 
in  the  distance  a  Greek  temple  with  the  inscription: 
"The  Temple  of  Satisfaction."  The  third  picture  rep- 
resented the  half-nude  figure  of  a  woman  in  a  recum- 
bent position,  much  foreshortened,  with  red  knees  and 
very  big  heels.  My  dog  had,  with  superhuman  efforts, 
crouched  under  the  sofa,  and  apparently  found  a  great 
deal  of  dust  there,  as  he  kept  sneezing  violently.  I 
went  to  the  window.  Boards  had  been  laid  across  the 
street  in  a  slanting  direction  from  the  manor-house 
to  the  counting-house — a  very  useful  precaution,  as, 


86  IVAN   TURGENEV 

thanks  to  our  rich  black  soil  and  the  persistent  rain, 
the  mud  was  terrible.  In  the  grounds  of  the  manor- 
house,  which  stood  with  its  back  to  the  street,  there 
was  the  constant  going  and  coming  there  always  is 
about  manor-houses :  maids  in  faded  chintz  gowns 
flitted  to  and  fro;  house-serfs  sauntered  through  the 
mud,  stood  still,  and  scratched  their  spines  medita- 
tively; the  constable's  horse,  tied  up  to  a  post,  lashed 
his  tail  lazily,  and,  with  his  nose  high  up,  gnawed  at 
the  hedge;  hens  were  clucking;  sickly  turkeys  kept  up 
an  incessant  gobble-gobble.  On  the  steps  of  a  dark, 
crumbling  out-house,  probably  the  bath-house,  sat  a 
stalwart  lad  with  a  guitar,  singing  with  some  spirit 
the  well-known  ballad : 

"  I'm  leaving  this  enchanting  spot 
To  go  into  the  desert." 

The  fat  man  came  into  the  room. 

"They're  bringing  you  in  your  tea,"  he  told  me,  with 
an  affable  smile. 

The  young  man  in  the  gray  coat,  the  clerk  on  duty, 
laid  on  the  old  card-table  a  samovar,  a  teapot,  a  tum- 
bler on  a  broken  saucer,  a  jug  of  cream,  and  a  bunch 
of  Bolhovo  biscuit  rings.  The  fat  man  went  out. 

"What  is  he?"  I  asked  the  clerk;  "the  steward?" 

"No,  sir;  he  was  the  chief  cashier,  but  now  he  Has 
been  promoted  to  be  head  clerk." 

"Haven't  you  got  a  steward,  then?" 

"No,  sir.  There's  an  agent,  Mihal  Vikulov,  but  no 
steward." 

"Is  there  a  manager,  then?" 


THE   COUNTING-HOUSE  87 

"Yes ;  a  German,  Lindamandol,  Karlo  Karlitch ;  only 
he  does  not  manage  the  estate." 

"Who  does  manage  it,  then  ?" 

"Our  mistress  herself." 

"You  don't  say  so.  And  are  there  many  of  you  in 
the  office?" 

The  young  man  reflected. 

"There  are  six  of  us." 

"Who  are  they?"  I  inquired. 

"Well,  first  there's  Vassily  Nikolaevitch,  the  head 
cashier;  then  Piotr,  one  clerk;  Piotr's  brother,  Ivan, 
another  clerk;  the  other  Ivan,  a  clerk;  Konstantin  Nar- 
kizer,  another  clerk ;  and  me  here — there's  a  lot  of  us, 
you  can't  count  all  of  them." 

"I  suppose  your  mistress  has  a  great  many  serfs  in 
her  house?" 

"No,  not  to  say  a  great  many." 

"How  many,  then?" 

"I  dare  say  it  runs  up  to  about  a  hundred  and 
fifty." 

We  were  both  silent  for  a  little. 

"I  suppose  you  write  a  good  hand,  eh?"  I  began 
again. 

The  young  man  grinned  from  ear  to  ear,  went 
into  the  office  and  brought  in  a  sheet  covered  with 
writing. 

"This  is  my  writing,"  he  announced,  still  with  the 
same  smile  on  his  face. 

I  looked  at  it;  on  the  square  sheet  of  grayish  paper 
there  was  written,  in  a  good  bold  hand,  the  following 
document : 
5— VOL.  i 


88  IVAN  TURGENEV 

"ORDER:  From  the  Chief  Office  of  the  Manor  of 
Ananyevo  to  the  Agent,  Mihal  Vikulov.     No.  209. 

"Whereas,  Some  person  unknown  entered  the  gar- 
den at  Ananyevo  last  night  in  an  intoxicated  condition, 
and  with  unseemly  songs  waked  the  French  governess, 
Madame  Engene,  and  disturbed  her;  and  whether  the 
watchman  saw  anything,  and  who  were  on  watch  in  the 
garden  and  permitted  such  disorderliness :  as  regards 
all  the  above-written  matters,  your  orders  are  to  inves- 
tigate in  detail,  and  report  immediately  to  the  Office. 
"Head  Clerk,  NIKOLAI  Hvosxov." 

A  huge  heraldic  seal  was  attached  to  the  order,  with 
the  inscription:  "Seal  of  the  chief  office  of  the  manor 
of  Ananyevo;"  and  below  stood  the  signature:  "To 
be  executed  exactly,  Elena  Losnyakov." 

"Your  lady  signed  it  herself,  eh?"  I  queried. 

"To  be  sure ;  she  always  signs  herself.  Without  that 
the  order  would  be  of  no  effect." 

"Well,  and  now  shall  you  send  this  order  to  the 
agent?" 

"No,  sir.  He'll  come  himself  and  read  it.  That's 
to  say,  it'll  be  read  to  him ;  you  see,  he's  no  scholar." 
The  clerk  on  duty  was  silent  again  for  a  while.  "But 
what  do  you  say?"  he  added,  simpering;  "is  it  well 
written?" 

"Very  well  written." 

"It  wasn't  composed,  I  must  confess,  by  me.  Kon- 
stantin  is  the  great  one  for  that." 

"What? —  Do  you  mean  the  orders  have  first  to  be 
composed  among  you?" 


THE  COUNTING-HOUSE  89 

"Why,  how  else  could  we  do  ?  Couldn't  write  them 
off  straight  without  making  a  fair  copy." 

"And  what  salary  do  you  get  ?"  I  inquired. 

"Thirty-five  rubles,  and  five  rubles  for  boots." 

"And  are  you  satisfied  ?" 

"Of  course  I  am  satisfied.  It's  not  every  one  can 
get  into  an  office  like  ours.  It  was  God's  will,  in  my 
case,  to  be  sure ;  I'd  an  uncle  who  was  in  service  as  a 
butler." 

"And  you're  well  off?" 

"Yes,  sir.  Though,  to  tell  the  truth,"  he  went  on, 
with  a  sigh,  "a  place  at  a  merchant's,  for  instance,  is 
better  for  the  likes  of  us.  At  a  merchant's  they're  very 
well  off.  Yesterday  evening  a  merchant  came  to  us 
from  Venev,  and  his  man  got  talking  to  me —  Yes, 
that's  a  good  place,  no  doubt  about  it;  a  very  good 
place." 

"Why?    Do  the  merchants  pay  more  wages?" 

"Lord  preserve  us!  Why,  a  merchant  would  soon 
give  you  the  sack  if  you  asked  him  for  wages.  No,  at 
a  merchant's  you  must  live  on  trust  and  on  fear.  He'll 
give  you  food,  and  drink,  and  clothes,  and  all  If  you 
give  him  satisfaction,  he'll  do  more —  Talk  of  wages, 
indeed!  You  don't  need  them —  And  a  merchant, 
too,  lives  in  plain  Russian  style,  like  ourselves ;  you  go 
with  him  on  a  journey — he  has  tea,  and  you  have  it; 
what  he  eats,  you  eat.  A  merchant — one  can  put  up 
with ;  a  merchant's  a  very  different  thing  from  what 
a  gentleman  is ;  a  merchant's  not  whimsical ;  if  he's  out 
of  temper,  he'll  give  you  a  blow,  and  there  it  ends.  He 
doesn't  nag  nor  sneer —  But  with  a  gentleman  it's  a 


90  IVAN  TURGENEV 

woful  business!  Nothing's  as  he  likes  it — this  is  not 
right,  and  that  he  can't  fancy.  You  hand  him  a  glass 
of  water  or  something  to  eat :  'Ugh,  the  water  stinks ! 
positively  stinks !'  You  take  it  out,  stay  a  minute  out- 
side the  door,  and  bring  it  back:  'Come,  now,  that's 
good;  this  doesn't  stink  now.'  And  as  for  the  ladies, 
I  tell  you,  the  ladies  are  something  beyond  every- 
thing!— and  the  young  ladies  above  all! — " 

"Fedyushka!"  came  the  fat  man's  voice  from  the 
office.  The  clerk  went  out  quickly.  I  drank  a  glass 
of  tea,  lay  down  on  the  sofa,  and  fell  asleep.  I  slept 
for  two  hours. 

When  I  woke  I  meant  to  get  up,  but  I  was  overcome 
by  laziness;  I  closed  my  eyes,  but  did  not  fall  asleep 
again.  On  the  other  side  of  the  partition,  in  the  office, 
they  were  talking  in  subdued  voices.  Unconsciously 
I  began  to  listen. 

"Quite  so,  quite  so,  Nikolai  Eremyitch,'  one  voice 
was  saying;  "quite  so.  One  can't  but  take  that 
into  account;  yes,  certainly!  Hm!"  The  speaker 
coughed. 

"You  may  believe  me,  Gavrila  Antonitch,"  replied 
the  fat  man's  voice ;  "don't  I  know  how  things  are  done 
here?  Judge  for  yourself." 

"Who  does,  if  you  don't,  Nikolai  Eremyitch? 
You're,  one  may  say,  the  first  person  here.  Well, 
then,  how's  it  to  be?"  pursued  the  voice  I  did  not 
recognize;  "what  decision  are  we  to  come  to,  Nikolai 
Eremyitch?  Allow  me  to  put  the  question." 

"What  decision,  Gavrila  Antonitch?  The  thing  de- 
pends, so  to  say,  on  you ;  you  don't  seem  overanxious." 


THE   COUNTING-HOUSE  91 

"Upon  my  word,  Nikolai  Eremyitch,  what  do  you 
mean  ?  Our  business  is  trading,  buying ;  it's  our  busi- 
ness to  buy.  That's  what  we  live  by,  Nikolai  Erem- 
yitch, one  may  say." 

"Eight  rubles  a  measure/'  said  the  fat  man  emphat- 
ically. 

A  sigh  was  audible. 

"Nikolai  Eremyitch,  sir,  you  ask  a  heavy  price." 

"Impossible,  Gavrila  Antonitch,  to  do  otherwise;  I 
speak  as  before  God  Almighty;  impossible." 

Silence  followed. 

I  got  up  softly  and  looked  through  a  crack  in  the 
partition.  The  fat  man  was  sitting  with  his  back  to 
me.  Facing  him  sat  a  merchant,  a  man  about  forty, 
lean  and  pale,  who  looked  as  if  he  had  been  rubbed  with 
oil.  He  was  incessantly  fingering  his  beard,  and  very 
rapidly  blinking  and  twitching  his  lips. 

"Wonderful  the  young  green  crops  this  year,  one 
may  say,"  he  began  again;  "I've  been  going  about 
everywhere  admiring  them.  All  the  way  from  Voro- 
nezh they've  come  up  wonderfully,  first-class,  one  may 
say." 

"The  crops  are  pretty  fair,  certainly,"  answered  the 
head  clerk;  "but  you  know  the  saying,  Gavrila  Anton- 
itch,  autumn  bids  fair,  but  spring  may  be  foul." 

"That's  so,  indeed,  Nikolai  Eremyitch;  all  is  in 
God's  hands;  it's  the  absolute  truth  what  you've  just 
remarked,  sir —  But  perhaps  your  visitor's  awake 
now?" 

The  fat  man  turned  round — listened — 

"No,  he's  asleep.     He  may,  though — " 


92  IVAN  TURGENEV 

He  went  to  the  door. 

"No,  he's  asleep,"  he  repeated,  and  went  back  to 
his  place. 

"Well,  so  what  are  we  to  say,  Nikolai  Eremyitch  ?" 
the  merchant  began  again;  "we  must  bring  our  little 
business  to  a  conclusion —  Let  it  be  so,  Nikolai  Erem- 
yitch, let  it  be  so,"  he  went  on,  blinking  incessantly; 
"two  gray  notes  and  a  white  for  your  favor,  and  there*' 
(he  nodded  in  the  direction  of  the  house),  "six  and  a 
half.  Done,  eh?" 

"Four  gray  notes,"  answered  the  clerk. 

"Come,  three,  then." 

"Four  grays  and  no  white." 

"Three,  Nikolai  Eremyitch." 

"Three  and  a  half,  and  not  a  farthing  less." 

"Three,  Nikolai  Eremyitch." 

"You're  not  talking  sense,  Gavrila  Antonitch." 

"My,  what  a  pig-headed  fellow!"  muttered  the 
merchant.  "Then  I'd  better  arrange  it  with  the  lady 
herself." 

"That's  as  you  like,"  answered  the  fat  man;  "far 
better,  I  should  say.  Why  should  you  worry  your- 
self, after  all?  Much  better,  indeed!" 

"Well,  well!  Nikolai  Eremyitch.  I  lost  my  temper 
for  a  minute!  That  was  nothing  but  talk." 

"No,  really,  why—" 

"Nonsense,  I  tell  you — I  tell  you  I  was  joking. 
Well,  take  your  three  and  a  half;  there's  no  doing 
anything  with  you." 

"I  ought  to  have  got  four,  but  I  was  in  too  great 
a  hurry — like  an  ass !"  muttered  the  fat  man. 


THE  COUNTING-HOUSE  93 

"Then  up  there  at  the  house,  six  and  a  half,  Nik- 
olai Eremyitch;  the  corn  will  be  sold  for  six  and 
a  half?" 

"Six  and  a  half,  as  we  said  already/' 

"Well,  your  hand  on  that  then,  Nikolai  Eremyitch." 
The  merchant  clapped  his  outstretched  fingers  into  the 
clerk's  palm.  "And  good-by,  in  God's  name!"  The 
merchant  got  up.  "So  then,  Nikolai  Eremyitch,  sir, 
I'll  go  now  to  your  lady,  and  bid  them  send  up  my 
name,  and  so  Fll  say  to  her,  'Nikolai  Eremyitch/  I'll 
say,  'has  made  a  bargain  with  me  for  six  and  a 
half/  " 

"That's  what  you  must  say,  Gavrila  Antonitch." 

"And  now,  allow  me." 

The  merchant  handed  the  manager  a  small  roll  of 
notes,  bowed,  shook  his  head,  picked  up  his  hat  with 
two  fingers,  shrugged  his  shoulders,  and,  with  a  sort 
of  undulating  motion,  went  out,  his  boots  creaking 
after  the  approved  fashion.  Nikolai  Eremyitch  went 
to  the  wall,  and,  as  far  as  I  could  make  out,  began 
sorting  the  notes  handed  him  by  the  merchant.  A 
red  head,  adorned  with  thick  whiskers,  was  thrust  in 
at  the  door. 

"Well?"  asked  the  head;  "all  as  it  should  be?" 

"Yes." 

"How  much?" 

The  fat  man  made  an  angry  gesture  with  his  hand, 
and  pointed  to  my  room. 

"Ah,  all  right!"  responded  the  head,  and  vanished. 

The  fat  man  went  up  to  the  table,  sat  down,  opened 
a  book,  took  out  a  reckoning  frame,  and  began  shift- 


94  IVAN   TURGENEV 

ing  the  beads  to  and  fro  as  he  counted,  using  not  the 
forefinger,  but  the  third  finger  of  his  right  hand,  which 
has  a  much  more  showy  effect. 

The  clerk  on  duty  came  in. 

"What  is  it?" 

"Sidor  is  here  from  Goloplek." 

"Oh !  ask  him  in.  Wait  a  bit,  wait  a  bit —  First 
go  and  look  whether  the  strange  gentleman's  still 
asleep,  or  whether  he  has  waked  up." 

The  clerk  on  duty  came  cautiously  into  my  room. 
I  laid  my  head  on  my  game-bag,  which  served  me  as 
a  pillow,  and  closed  my  eyes. 

"He's  asleep,"  whispered  the  clerk  on  duty,  return- 
ing to  the  counting-house. 

The  fat  man  muttered  something. 

"Well,  send  Sidor  in,"  he  said  at  last. 

I  got  up  again. 

A  peasant  of  about  thirty,  of  huge  stature,  came 
in — a  red-cheeked,  vigorous-looking  fellow,  with 
brown  hair,  and  a  short  curly  beard.  He  crossed 
himself,  praying  to  the  holy  image,  bowed  to  the 
head  clerk,  held  his  hat  before  him  in  both  hands, 
and  stood  erect. 

"Good  day,  Sidor,"  said  the  fat  man,  tapping  with 
the  reckoning  beads. 

"Good  day  to  you,  Nikolai  Eremyitch." 

"Well,  what  are  the  roads  like?" 

"Pretty  fair,  Nikolai  Eremyitch.  A  bit  muddy." 
The  peasant  spoke  slowly  and  not  loud. 

"Wife  quite  well?" 

"She's  all  right!" 


THE   COUNTING-HOUSE  95 

The  peasant  gave  a  sigh  and  shifted  one  leg  forward. 
Nikolai  Eremyitch  put  his  pen  behind  his  ear,  and  blew 
his  nose. 

"Well,  what  have  you  come  about?"  he  proceeded 
to  inquire,  putting  his  check  handkerchief  into  his 
pocket. 

"Why,  they  do  say,  Nikolai  Eremyitch,  they're  ask- 
ing for  carpenters  from  us." 

"Well,  aren't  there  any  among  you,  hey  ?" 

"To  be  sure  there  are,  Nikolai  Eremyitch ;  our  place 
is  right  in  the  woods;  our  earnings  are  all  from  the 
wood,  to  be  sure.  But  it's  the  busy  time,  Nikolai  Erem- 
yitch. Where's  the  time  to  come  from  ?" 

"The  time  to  come  from !  Busy  time !  I  dare  say 
you're  so  eager  to  work  for  outsiders,  and  don't  care 
to  work  for  your  mistress —  It's  all  the  same !" 

"The  work's  all  the  same,  certainly,  Nikolai  Erem- 
yitch— but — " 

"Well?" 

"The  pay's— very — " 

"What  next !  You've  been  spoiled ;  that's  what  it  is. 
Get  along  with  you !" 

"And  what's  more,  Nikolai  Eremyitch,  there'll  be 
only  a  week's  work,  but  they'll  keep  us  hanging  on  a 
month.  One  time  there's  not  material  enough,  and 
another  time  they'll  send  us  into  the  garden  to  weed 
the  path." 

"What  of  it  ?  Our  lady  herself  is  pleased  to  give  the 
order,  so  it's  useless  you  and  me  talking  about  it." 

Sidor  was  silent;  he  began  shifting  from  one  leg  to 
the  other. 


96  IVAN   TURGENEV 

Nikolai  Eremyitch  put  his  head  on  one  side,  and 
began  busily  playing  with  the  reckoning  beads. 

"Our — peasants — Nikolai  Eremyitch — "  Sidor  be- 
gan at  last,  hesitating  over  each  word,  "sent  word  to 
your  honor — there  is — see  here — "  He  thrust  his  big 
hand  into  the  bosom  of  his  coat,  and  began  to  pull  out 
a  folded  linen  kerchief  with  a  red  border. 

"What  are  you  thinking  of?  Goodness,  idiot,  are 
you  out  of  your  senses?"  the  fat  man  interposed  hur- 
riedly. "Go  on;  go  to  my  cottage/'  he  continued, 
almost  shoving  the  bewildered  peasant  out;  "ask  for 
my  wife  there — she'll  give  you  some  tea ;  I'll  be  round 
directly;  go  on.  For  goodness'  sake,  I  tell  you,  go  on." 

Sidor  went  away. 

"Ugh! — what  a  bear!"  the  head  clerk  muttered  after 
him,  shaking  his  head,  and  set  to  work  again  on  his 
reckoning  frame. 

Suddenly  shouts  of  "Kuprya!  Kuprya!  there's  no 
knocking  down  Kuprya !"  were  heard  in  the  street  and 
on  the  steps,  and  a  little  later  there  came  into  the 
counting-house  a  small  man  of  sickly  appearance,  with 
an  extraordinarily  long  nose  and  large,  staring  eyes, 
who  carried  himself  with  a  great  air  of  superiority. 
He  was  dressed  in  a  ragged  little  old  surtout,  with  a 
plush  collar  and  diminutive  buttons.  He  carried  a 
bundle  of  firewood  on  his  shoulder.  Five  house-serfs 
were  crowding  round  him,  all  shouting,  "Kuprya! 
there's  no  suppressing  Kuprya !  Kuprya's  been  turned 
stoker;  Kuprya's  turned  a  stoker!"  But  the  man  in 
the  coat  with  the  plush  collar  did  not  pay  the  slightest 
attention  to  the  uproar  made  by  his  companions,  and 


THE  COUNTING-HOUSE  97 

was  not  in  the  least  out  of  countenance.  With  meas- 
ured steps  he  went  up  to  the  stove,  flung  down  his 
load,  straightened  himself,  took  out  of  his  tail-pocket 
a  snuff-box,  and  with  round  eyes  began  helping  him- 
self to  a  pinch  of  dry  trefoil  mixed  with  ashes.  At 
the  entrance  of  this  noisy  party  the  fat  man  had  at 
first  knitted  his  brows  and  risen  from  his  seat,  but, 
seeing  what  it  was,  he  smiled,  and  only  told  them  not 
to  shout.  "There's  a  sportsman,"  said  he,  "asleep  in 
the  next  room." 

"What  sort  of  sportsman  ?"  two  of  them  asked  with 
one  voice. 

"A  gentleman." 

"Ah!" 

"Let  them  make  a  row,"  said  the  man  with  the 
plush  collar,  waving  his  arms;  "what  do  I  care,  so 
long  as  they  don't  touch  me?  They've  turned  me  into 
a  stoker — " 

"A  stoker !  a  stoker !"  the  others  put  in  gleefully. 

"It's  the  mistress's  orders,"  he  went  on,  with  a  shrug 
of  his  shoulders ;  "but  just  you  wait  a  bit — they'll  turn 
you  into  swineherds  yet.  But  I've  been  a  tailor,  and 
a  good  tailor  too,  learned  my  trade  in  the  best  house 
in  Moscow,  and  worked  for  generals — and  nobody  can 
take  that  from  me.  And  what  have  you  to  boast  of? 
What?  you're  a  pack  of  idlers,  not  worth  your  salt; 
that's  what  you  are!  Turn  me  off!  I  shan't  die  of 
hunger;  I  shall  be  all  right;  give  me  a  passport.  I'd 
send  a  good  rent  home,  and  satisfy  the  masters.  But 
what  would  you  do?  You'd  die  off  like  flies,  that's 
what  you'd  do !" 


98  IVAN  TURGENEV 

"That's  a  nice  lie!"  interposed  a  pockmarked  lad 
with  white  eyelashes,  a  red  cravat,  and  ragged  elbows. 
"You  went  off  with  a  passport  sharp  enough,  but  never 
a  halfpenny  of  rent  did  the  masters  see  from  you,  and 
you  never  earned  a  farthing  for  yourself;  you  just 
managed  to  crawl  home  again,  and  you've  never  had 
a  new  rag  on  you  since." 

"Ah,  well,  what  could  one  do,  Konstantin  Narki- 
zitch?"  responded  Kuprya;  "a  man  falls  in  love — a 
man's  ruined  and  done  for!  You  go  through  what  I 
have,  Konstantin  Narkizitch,  before  you  blame  me!" 

"And  you  picked  out  a  nice  one  to  fall  in  love  with ! 
— a  regular  fright." 

"No,  you  mustn't  say  that,  Konstantin  Narkizitch." 

"Who's  going  to  believe  that?  I've  seen  her,  you 
know;  I  saw  her  with  my  own  eyes  last  year  in 
Moscow." 

"Last  year  she  had  gone  off  a  little,  certainly,"  ob- 
served Kuprya. 

"No,  gentlemen,  I  tell  you  what,"  a  tall,  thin  man, 
with  a  face  spotted  with  pimples,  a  valet  probably, 
from  his  frizzed  and  pomatumed  head,  remarked  in 
a  careless  and  disdainful  voice;  "let  Kuprya  Afanas- 
yitch  sing  us  his  song.  Come  on,  now ;  begin,  Kuprya 
Afanasyitch." 

"Yes!  yes!"  put  in  the  others.  "Hoorah  for  Alex- 
andra !  That's  one  for  Kuprya ;  'pon  my  soul —  Sing 
away,  Kuprya ! —  You're  a  regular  brick,  Alexandra !" 
(Serfs  often  use  feminine  terminations  in  referring 
to  a  man  as  an  expression  of  endearment.)  "Sing 
away!" 


THE   COUNTING-HOUSE  99 

"This  is  not  the  place  to  sing,"  Kuprya  replied 
firmly;  "this  is  the  manor  counting-house/' 

"And  what's  that  to  do  with  you?  you've  got  your 
eye  on  a  place  as  clerk,  eh?"  answered  Konstantin 
with  a  coarse  laugh.  "That's  what  it  is!" 

"Everything  rests  with  the  mistress,"  observed  the 
poor  wretch. 

"There,  that's  what  he's  got  his  eye  on!  a  fellow 
like  him!  oo!  oo!  a!" 

And  they  all  roared;  some  rolled  about  with  merri- 
ment. Louder  than  all  laughed  a  lad  of  fifteen,  prob- 
ably the  son  of  an  aristocrat  among  the  house-serfs; 
he  wore  a  waistcoat  with  bronze  buttons,  and  a  cravat 
of  lilac  color,  and  had  already  had  time  to  fill  out  his 
waistcoat. 

"Come,  tell  us,  confess  now,  Kuprya,"  Nikolai 
Eremyitch  began  complacently,  obviously  tickled  and 
diverted  himself ;  "is  it  bad  being  stoker  ?  Is  it  an  easy 
job,  eh?" 

"Nikolai  Eremyitch,"  began  Kuprya,  "you're  head 
clerk  among  us  now,  certainly;  there's  no  disputing 
that,  no ;  but  you  know  you  have  been  in  disgrace  your- 
self, and  you  too  have  lived  in  a  peasant's  hut." 

"You'd  better  look  out  and  not  forget  yourself  in 
my  place,"  the  fat  man  interrupted  emphatically ;  "peo- 
ple joke  with  a  fool  like  you;  you  ought,  you  fool,  to 
have  sense,  and  be  grateful  to  them  for  taking  notice 
of  a  fool  like  you." 

"It  was  a  slip  of  the  tongue,  Nikolai  Eremyitch; 
I  beg  your  pardon — " 

"Yes,  indeed,  a  slip  of  the  tongue." 


100  IVAN   TURGENEV 

The  door  opened  and  a  little  page  ran  in. 

"Nikolai  Eremyitch,  mistress  wants  you." 

"Who's  with  the  mistress?"  he  asked  the  page. 

"Aksinya  Nikitishna,  and  a  merchant  from  Venev." 

"I'll  be  there  this  minute.  And  you,  mates,"  he 
continued  in  a  persuasive  voice,  "better  move  off  out 
of  here  with  the  newly  appointed  stoker ;  if  the  German 
pops  in,  he'll  make  a  complaint  for  certain." 

The  fat  man  smoothed  his  hair,  coughed  into  his 
hand,  which  was  almost  completely  hidden  in  his  coat- 
sleeve,  buttoned  himself,  and  set  off  with  rapid  strides 
to  see  the  lady  of  the  manor.  In  a  little  while  the 
whole  party  trailed  out  after  him,  together  with  Ku- 
prya.  My  old  friend,  the  clerk  on  duty,  was  left  alone. 
He  set  to  work  mending  the  pens,  and  dropped  asleep 
in  his  chair.  A  few  flies  promptly  seized  the  oppor- 
tunity and  settled  on  his  mouth.  A  mosquito  alighted 
on  his  forehead,  and,  stretching  its  legs  out  with  a 
regular  motion,  slowly  buried  its  sting  into  his  flabby 
flesh.  The  same  red  head  with  whiskers  showed  itself 
again  at  the  door,  looked  in,  looked  again,  and  then 
came  into  the  office,  together  with  the  rather  ugly  body 
belonging  to  it. 

"Fedyushka!  eh,  Fedyushka!  always  asleep,"  said 
the  head. 

The  clerk  on  duty  opened  his  eyes  and  got  up  from 
his  seat. 

"Nikolai  Eremyitch  has  gone  to  the  mistress?" 

"Yes,  Vassily  Nikolaevitch." 

"Ah!  ah!"  thought  I;  "this  is  he,  the  head  cashier." 

The  head  cashier  began  walking  about  the  room. 


THE   COUNTING-HOUSE  101 

He  really  slunk  rather  than  walked,  and  altogether 
resembled  a  cat.  An  old  black  frock-coat  with  very 
narrow  skirts  hung  about  his  shoulders;  he  kept  one 
hand  in  his  bosom,  while  the  other  was  forever  fum- 
bling about  his  high,  narrow  horse-hair  collar,  and  he 
turned  his  head  with  a  certain  effort.  He  wore  noise- 
less kid  boots,  and  trod  very  softly. 

"The  landowner,  Yagushkin,  was  asking  for  you 
to-day,"  added  the  clerk  on  duty. 

"Hm,  asking  for  me?    What  did  he  say?" 

"Said  he'd  go  to  Tyutyurov  this  evening  and  would 
wait  for  you.  'I  want  to  discuss  some  business  with 
Vassily  Nikolaevitch/  said  he,  but  what  the  business 
was  he  didn't  say;  'Vassily  Nikolaevitch  will  know/ 
says  he." 

"Hm !"  replied  the  head  cashier,  and  he  went  up  to 
the  window. 

"Is  Nikolai  Eremyitch  in  the  counting-house?"  a 
loud  voice  was  heard  asking  in  the  outer  room,  and 
a  tall  man,  apparently  angry,  with  an  irregular  but 
bold  and  expressive  face,  and  rather  clean  in  his  dress, 
stepped  over  the  threshold. 

"Isn't  he  here?"  he  inquired,  looking  rapidly  round. 

"Nikolai  Eremyitch  is  with  the  mistress,"  responded 
the  cashier.  "Tell  me  what  you  want,  Pavel  Andreitch ; 
you  can  tell  me —  What  is  it  you  want?" 

"What  do  I  want?  You  want  to  know  what  I 
want?"  The  cashier  gave  a  sickly  nod.  "I  want  to 
give  him  a  lesson,  the  fat,  greasy  villain,  the  scoun- 
drelly tell-tale!—  I'll  give  him  a  tale  to  tell!" 

Pavel  flung  himself  into  a  chair. 


102  IVAN  TURGENEV 

"What  are  you  saying,  Pavel  Andreitch!  Calm 
yourself —  Aren't  you  ashamed  ?  Don't  forget  whom 
you're  talking  about,  Pavel  Andreitch!"  lisped  the 
cashier. 

"Forget  whom  I'm  talking  about?  What  do  I  care 
for  his  being  made  head  clerk  ?  A  fine  person  they've 
found  to  promote,  there's  no  denying  that!  They've 
let  the  goat  loose  in  the  kitchen  garden,  you  may  say !" 

"Hush,  hush,  Pavel  Andreitch,  hush!  drop  that — 
what  rubbish  are  you  talking  ?" 

"So  Master  Fox  is  beginning  to  fawn?  I  will  wait 
for  him,"  Pavel  said  with  passion,  and  he  struck  a 
blow  on  the  table.  "Ah,  here  he's  coming !"  he  added 
with  a  look  at  the  window;  "speak  of  the  devil.  With 
your  kind  permission!"  He  got  up. 

Nikolai  Eremyitch  came  into  the  counting-house. 
His  face  was  shining  with  satisfaction,  but  he  was 
rather  taken  aback  at  seeing  Pavel  Andreitch. 

"Good  day  to  you,  Nikolai  Eremyitch,"  said  Pavel 
in  a  significant  tone,  advancing  deliberately  to  meet 
him. 

The  head  clerk  made  no  reply.  The  face  of  the  mer- 
chant showed  itself  in  the  doorway. 

"What,  won't  you  deign  to  answer  me?"  pursued 
Pavel.  "But  no — no,"  he  added ;  "that's  not  it ;  there's 
no  getting  anything  by  shouting  and  abuse.  No,  you'd 
better  tell  me  in  a  friendly  way,  Nikolai  Eremyitch; 
what  do  you  persecute  me  for?  what  do  you  want  to 
ruin  me  for?  Come,  speak,  speak." 

"This  is  no  fit  place  to  come  to  an  understanding 
with  you,"  the  head  clerk  answered  in  some  agitation, 


THE   COUNTING-HOUSE  103 

"and  no  fit  time.  But  I  must  say  I  wonder  at  one 
thing :  what  makes  you  suppose  I  want  to  ruin  you,  or 
that  I'm  persecuting  you?  And  if  you  come  to  that, 
how  can  I  persecute  you?  You're  not  in  my  counting- 
house." 

"I  should  hope  not/'  answered  Pavel;  "that  would 
be  the  last  straw !  But  why  are  you  humbugging,  Niko- 
lai Eremyitch? —  You  understand  me,  you  know." 

"No,  I  don't  understand." 

"No,  you  do  understand." 

"No,  by  God,  I  don't  understand!" 

"Swearing,  too!  Well,  tell  us,  since  it's  come  to 
that:  have  you  no  fear  of  God?  Why  can't  you  let 
the  poor  girl  live  in  peace?  What  do  you  want  of 
her?" 

"Whom  are  you  talking  of?"  the  fat  man  asked  with 
feigned  amazement. 

"Ugh!  doesn't  know;  what  next?  I'm  talking  of 
Tatyana.  Have  some  fear  of  God — what  do  you  want 
to  revenge  yourself  for?  You  ought  to  be  ashamed: 
a  married  man  like  you,  with  children  as  big  as  I  am ; 
it's  a  very  different  thing  with  me —  I  mean  marriage : 
I'm  acting  straightforwardly." 

"How  am  I  to  blame  in  that,  Pavel  Andreitch  ?  The 
mistress  won't  permit  you  to  marry ;  it's  her  seigniorial 
will !  What  have  I  to  do  with  it?" 

"Why,  haven't  you  been  plotting  with  that  old  hag, 
the  housekeeper,  eh?  Haven't  you  been  telling  tales, 
eh?  Tell  me,  aren't  you  bringing  all  sorts  of  stories 
up  against  the  defenseless  girl  ?  I  suppose  it's  not  your 
doing  that  she's  been  degraded  from  laundrymaid  to 


104  IVAN  TURGENEV 

washing  dishes  in  the  scullery?  And  it's  not  your 
doing  that  she's  beaten  and  dressed  in  sackcloth? — 
You  ought  to  be  ashamed,  you  ought  to  be  ashamed — 
an  old  man  like  you!  You  know  there's  a  paralytic 
stroke  always  hanging  over  you —  You  will  have  to 
answer  to  God." 

"You're  abusive,  Pavel  Andreitch,  you're  abusive — 
You  shan't  have  a  chance  to  be  insolent  much 
longer." 

Pavel  fired  up. 

"What?  You  dare  to  threaten  me?"  he  said  pas- 
sionately. "You  think  I'm  afraid  of  you.  No,  my 
man,  I'm  not  come  to  that !  What  have  I  to  be  afraid 
of? —  I  can  make  my  bread  everywhere.  For  you, 
now,  it's  another  thing!  It's  only  here  you  can  live 
and  tell  tales,  and  filch—" 

"Fancy  the  conceit  of  the  fellow!"  interrupted  the 
clerk,  who  was  also  beginning  to  lose  patience;  "an 
apothecary's  assistant,  simply  an  apothecary's  assistant, 
a  wretched  leech;  and  listen  to  him — fie  upon  you! 
you're  a  high  and  mighty  personage !" 

"Yes,  an  apothecary's  assistant,  and  except  for  this 
apothecary's  assistant  you'd  have  been  rotting  in  the 
graveyard  by  now —  It  was  some  devil  drove  me  to 
cure  him,"  he  added  between  his  teeth. 

"You  cured  me? —  No,  you  tried  to  poison  me; 
you  dosed  me  with  aloes,"  the  clerk  put  in. 

"What  was  I  to  do  if  nothing  but  aloes  had  any 
effect  on  you?" 

"The  use  of  aloes  is  forbidden  by  the  Board  of 
Health,"  pursued  Nikolai.  "I'll  lodge  a  complaint 


THE  COUNTING-HOUSE  105 

against  you  yet —  You  tried  to  compass  my  death 
— that  was  what  you  did!  But  the  Lord  suffered 
it  not." 

"Hush,  now,  that's  enough,  gentlemen,"  the  cashier 
was  beginning — 

"Stand  off!"  bawled  the  clerk.  "He  tried  to  poison 
me!  Do  you  understand  that?" 

"That's  very  likely —  Listen,  Nikolai  Eremyitch," 
Pavel  began  in  despairing  accents.  "For  the  last  time, 
I  beg  you —  You  force  me  to  it —  I  can't  stand  it 
any  longer.  Let  us  alone,  do  you  hear?  or  else,  by 
God,  it'll  go  ill  with  one  or  other  of  us — I  mean  with 
you!" 

The  fat  man  flew  into  a  rage. 

"I'm  not  afraid  of  you !"  he  shouted ;  "do  you  hear, 
milksop  ?  I  got  the  better  of  your  father ;  I  broke  his 
horns — a  warning  to  you ;  take  care !" 

"Don't  talk  of  my  father,  Nikolai  Eremyitch." 

"Get  away!  who  are  you  to  give  me  orders?" 

"I  tell  you,  don't  talk  of  him!" 

"And  I  tell  you,  don't  forget  yourself —  However 
necessary  you  think  yourself,  if  our  lady  has  a  choice 
between  us,  it's  not  you'll  be  kept,  my  dear!  None's 
allowed  to  mutiny,  mind!"  Pavel  was  shaking  with 
fury.  "As  for  the  wench,  Tatyana,  she  deserves — 
wait  a  bit,  she'll  get  something  worse !" 

Pavel  dashed  forward  with  uplifted  fists,  and  the 
clerk  rolled  heavily  on  the  floor. 

"Handcuff  him,  handcuff  him,"  groaned  Nikolai 
Eremyitch — 

I  won't  take  upon  myself  to  describe  the  end  of  this 


106  THE   COUNTING-HOUSE 

scene;  I  fear  I  have  wounded  the  reader's  delicate  sus- 
ceptibilities as  it  is. 

The  same  day  I  returned  home.  A  week  later  I 
heard  that  Madame  Losnyakov  had  kept  both  Pavel 
and  Nikolai  in  her  service,  but  had  sent  away  the  girl 
Tatyana ;  it  appeared  she  was  not  wanted. 


THE    THIEF 


BY   FEODOR   MIKAILOVITCH   DOSTOIEVSKI 


Dostoievsky  the  son  of  a  Moscow  physician, 
was  born  in  1821  and  died  of  consumption  in 
1881.  For  his  connection  with  a  revolutionary 
plot  he  was  condemned  to  death  in  1849,  but 
on  the  scaffold  his  sentence  was  commuted  to 
hard  labor  in  Siberia.  While  his  writings  are 
not  distinguished  in  form  or  style,  the  author's 
intimate  knowledge  of  the  life  he  portrays  and 
his  wonderful  power  of  analysis  unite  to  create 
an  impression  of  life  that  is  all  the  more  poign- 
ant because  it  is  so  scientifically  accurate. 

The  degree  of  relationship  between  "The 
Thief"  and  Gogol's  "The  Cloak"  will  be  read- 
ily perceived. 

"Crime  and  Punishment"  is  the  only  one  of 
the  few  of  his  books  translated  into  English 
that  is  at  all  well  known  to  American  readers. 


THE     THIEF 

BY  FEODOR    DOSTOIEVSKY 

ONE  morning,  just  as  I  was  about  to  leave  for 
my  place  of  employment,  Agrafena  (my 
cook,  laundress,  and  housekeeper  all  in  one 
person)  entered  my  room,  and,  to  my  great  astonish- 
ment, started  a  conversation. 

She  was  a  quiet,  simple-minded  woman,  who  dur- 
ing the  whole  six  years  of  her  stay  with  me  had  never 
spoken  more  than  two  or  three  words  daily,  and  that 
in  reference  to  my  dinner — at  least,  I  had  never  heard 
her. 

"I  have  come  to  you,  sir,"  she  suddenly  began, 
"about  the  renting  out  of  the  little  spare  room." 

"What  spare  room?" 

"The  one  that  is  near  the  kitchen,  of  course ;  which 
should  it  be?" 

"Why?" 

"Why  do  people  generally  take  lodgers?  Be- 
cause." 

"But  who  will  take  it?" 

"Who  will  take  it!  A  lodger,  of  course!  Who 
should  take  it?" 

"But  there  is  hardly  room  in  there,  mother  mine, 
for  a  bed;  it  will  be  too  cramped.  How  can  one 
live  in  it?" 

Translated  by  Lizzie  B.  Gorin.    Copyright,  1907,  by  P.  F.  Collier  &  Son. 

(109) 


110  FEODOR  DOSTOIEVSKI 

"But  why  live  in  it ! .  He  only  wants  a  place  to  sleep 
in ;  he  will  live  on  the  window-seat." 

"What  window-seat?" 

"How  is  that  ?  What  window-seat  ?  As  if  you  did 
not  know !  The  one  in  the  hall.  He  will  sit  on  it  and 
sew,  or  do  something  else.  But  maybe  he  will  sit  on 
a  chair;  he  has  a  chair  of  his  own — and  a  table  also, 
and  everything." 

"But  who  is  he?" 

"A  nice,  worldly-wise  man.  I  will  cook  for  him 
and  will  charge  him  only  three  rubles  in  silver  a 
month  for  room  and  board — " 

At  last,  after  long  endeavor,  I  found  out  that  some 
elderly  man  had  talked  Agrafena  into  taking  him  into 
the  kitchen  as  lodger.  When  Agrafena  once  got  a 
thing  into  her  head  that  thing  had  to  be;  otherwise  I 
knew  I  would  have  no  peace.  On  those  occasions  when 
things  did  go  against  her  wishes,  she  immediately  fell 
into  a  sort  of  brooding,  became  exceedingly  melan- 
choly, and  continued  in  that  state  for  two  or  three 
weeks.  During  this  time  the  food  was  invariably 
spoiled,  the  linen  was  missing,  the  floors  unscrubbed; 
in  a  word,  a  lot  of  unpleasant  things  happened.  I  had 
long  ago  become  aware  of  the  fact  that  this  woman 
of  very  few  words  was  incapable  of  forming  a  de- 
cision, or  of  coming  to  any  conclusion  based  on  her 
own  thoughts ;  and  yet  when  it  happened  that  by  some 
means  there  had  formed  in  her  weak  brain  a  sort  of 
idea  or  wish  to  undertake  a  thing,  to  refuse  her  per- 
mission to  carry  out  this  idea  or  wish  meant  simply 
to  kill  her  morally  for  some  time.  And  so,  acting  in 


THE  THIEF  HI 

the  sole  interest  of  my  peace  of  mind,  I  immediately 
agreed  to  this  new  proposition  of  hers. 

"Has  he  at  least  the  necessary  papers,  a  passport, 
or  anything  of  the  kind  ?" 

"How  then?  Of  course  he  has.  A  fine  man  like 
him — who  has  seen  the  world —  He  promised  to  pay 
three  rubles  a  month." 

On  the  very  next  day  the  new  lodger  appeared  in 
my  modest  bachelor  quarters;  but  I  did  not  feel  an- 
noyed in  the  least — on  the  contrary,  in  a  way  I  was 
glad  of  it.  I  live  a  very  solitary,  hermit-like  life.  I 
have  almost  no  acquaintance  and  seldom  go  out.  Hav- 
ing led  the  existence  of  a  moor-cock  for  ten  years,  I 
was  naturally  used  to  solitude.  But  ten,  fifteen  years 
Or  more  of  the  same  seclusion  in  company  with  a  per- 
son like  Agrafena,  and  in  the  same  bachelor  dwelling, 
was  indeed  a  joyless  prospect.  Therefore,  the  pres- 
ence of  another  quiet,  unobtrusive  man  in  the  house 
was,  under  these  circumstances,  a  real  blessing. 

Agrafena  had  spoken  the  truth:  the  lodger  was  a 
man  who  had  seen  much  in  his  life.  From  his  pass- 
port it  appeared  that  he  was  a  retired  soldier,  which 
I  noticed  even  before  I  looked  at  the  passport. 

As  soon  as  I  glanced  at  him  in  fact. 

Astafi  Ivanich,  my  lodger,  belonged  to  the  better 
sort  of  soldiers,  another  thing  I  noticed  as  soon  as  I 
saw  him.  We  liked  each  other  from  the  first,  and 
our  life  flowed  on  peacefully  and  comfortably.  The 
best  thing  was  that  Astafi  Ivanich  could  at  times  tell 
a  good  story,  incidents  of  his  own  life.  In  the  gen- 
eral tediousness  of  my  humdrum  existence,  such  a  nar- 

6— VOL.  i 


112  FEODOR  DOSTOIEVSKI 

rator  was  a  veritable  treasure.  Once  he  told  me  a 
story  which  has  made  a  lasting  impression  upon  me; 
but  first  the  incident  which  led  to  the  story. 

Once  I  happened  to  be  left  alone  in  the  house,  Astafi 
and  Agrafena  having  gone  out  on  business.  Suddenly 
I  heard  some  one  enter,  and  I  felt  that  it  must  be  a 
stranger;  I  went  out  into  the  corridor  and  found  a 
man  of  short  stature,  and  notwithstanding  the  cold 
weather,  dressed  very  thinly  and  without  an  overcoat. 

"What  is  it  you  want?" 

"The  Government  clerk  Alexandrov?  Does  he  live 
here?" 

"There  is  no  one  here  by  that  name,  little  brother; 
good  day." 

"The  porter  told  me  he  lived  here,"  said  the  visitor, 
cautiously  retreating  toward  the  door. 

"Go  on,  go  on,  little  brother ;  be  off !" 

Soon  after  dinner  the  next  day,  when  Astafi  brought 
in  my  coat,  which  he  had  repaired  for  me,  I  once  more 
heard  a  strange  step  in  the  corridor.  I  opened  the 
door. 

The  visitor  of  the  day  before,  calmly  and  before 
my  very  eyes,  took  my  short  coat  from  the  rack,  put 
it  under  his  arm,  and  ran  out. 

Agrafena,  who  had  all  the  time  been  looking  at  him 
in  open-mouthed  surprise  through  the  kitchen  door, 
was  seemingly  unable  to  stir  from  her  place  and 
rescue  the  coat.  But  Astafi  Ivanich  rushed  after  the 
rascal,  and,  out  of  breath  and  panting,  returned  empty- 
handed.  The  man  had  vanished  as  if  the  earth  had 
swallowed  him. 


THE  THIEF  113 

"It  is  too  bad,  really,  Astafi  Ivanich,"  I  said.  "It 
is  well  that  I  have  my  cloak  left.  Otherwise  the 
scoundrel  would  have  put  me  out  of  service  alto- 
gether." 

But  Astafi  seemed  so  much  affected  by  what  had 
happened  that  as  I  gazed  at  him  I  forgot  all  about 
the  theft.  He  could  not  regain  his  composure,  and 
every  once  in  a  while  threw  down  the  work  which 
occupied  him,  and  began  once  more  to  recount  how 
it  had  all  happened,  where  he  had  been  standing,  while 
only  two  steps  away  my  coat  had  been  stolen  before 
his  very  eyes,  and  how  he  could  not  even  catch  the 
thief.  Then  once  more  he  resumed  his  work,  only  to 
throw  it  away  again,  and  I  saw  him  go  down  to  the 
porter,  tell  him  what  had  happened,  and  reproach  him 
with  not  taking  sufficient  care  of  the  house,  that  such 
a  theft  could  be  perpetrated  in  it.  When  he  returned 
he  began  to  upbraid  Agrafena.  Then  he  again  re- 
sumed his  work,  muttering  to  himself  for  a  long  time 
— how  this  is  the  way  it  all  was — how  he  stood  here, 
and  I  there,  and  how  before  our  very  eyes,  no  farther 
than  two  steps  away,  the  coat  was  taken  off  its  hanger, 
and  so  on.  In  a  word,  Astafi  Ivanich,  though  he 
knew  how  to  do  certain  things,  worried  a  great  deal 
over  trifles. 

"We  have  been  fooled,  Astafi  Ivanich,"  I  said  to 
him  that  evening,  handing  him  a  glass  of  tea,  and 
hoping  from  sheer  ennui  to  call  forth  the  story  of  the 
lost  coat  again,  which  by  dint  of  much  repetition  had 
begun  to  sound  extremely  comical. 

"Yes,  we  were  fooled,  sir.    It  angers  me  very  much, 


114  FEODOR   DOSTOIEVSKI 

though  the  loss  is  not  mine,  and  I  think  there  is  noth- 
ing so  despicably  low  in  this  world  as  a  thief.  They 
steal  what  you  buy  by  working  in  the  sweat  of  your 
brow —  Your  time  and  labor —  The  loathsome  crea- 
ture !  It  sickens  me  to  talk  of  it — pf ui !  It  makes  me 
angry  to  think  of  it.  How  is  it,  sir,  that  you  do  not 
seem  to  be  at  all  sorry  about  it?" 

"To  be  sure,  Astafi  Ivanich,  one  would  much  sooner 
see  his  things  burn  up  than  see  a  thief  take  them.  It 
is  exasperating — " 

"Yes,  it  is  annoying  to  have  anything  stolen  from 
you.  But  of  course  there  are  thieves  and  thieves — 
I,  for  instance,  met  an  honest  thief  through  an  acci- 
dent." 

"How  is  that?  An  honest  thief?  How  can  a  thief 
be  honest,  Astafi  Ivanich?" 

"You  speak  truth,  sir.  A  thief  can  not  be  an  honest 
man.  There  never  was  such.  I  only  wanted  to  say 
that  he  was  an  honest  man,  it  seems  to  me,  even 
though  he  stole.  I  was  very  sorry  for  him." 

"And  how  did  it  happen,  Astafi  Ivanich?" 

"It  happened  just  two  years  ago.  I  was  serving  as 
house  steward  at  the  time,  and  the  baron  whom  I 
served  expected  shortly  to  leave  for  his  estate,  so  that 
I  knew  I  would  soon  be  out  of  a  job,  and  then  God 
only  knew  how  I  would  be  able  to  get  along;  and  just 
then  it  was  that  I  happened  to  meet  in  a  tavern  a  poor 
forlorn  creature,  Emelian  by  name.  Once  upon  a  time 
he  had  served  somewhere  or  other,  but  had  been  driven 
out  of  service  on  account  of  tippling.  Such  an  un- 
worthy creature  as  he  was!  He  wore  whatever  came 


THE  THIEF  115 

along.  At  times  I  even  wondered  if  he  wore  a  shirt 
under  his  shabby  cloak;  everything  he  could  put  his 
hands  on  was  sold  for  drink.  But  he  was  not  a  rowdy. 
Oh,  no;  he  was  of  a  sweet,  gentle  nature,  very  kind 
and  tender  to  every  one ;  he  never  asked  for  anything, 
was,  if  anything,  too  conscientious —  Well,  you  could 
see  without  asking  when  the  poor  fellow  was  dying 
for  a  drink,  and  of  course  you  treated  him  to  one. 
Well,  we  became  friendly,  that  is,  he  attached  himself 
to  me  like  a  little  dog — you  go  this  way,  he  follows — 
and  all  this  after  our  very  first  meeting. 

"Of  course  he  remained  with  me  that  night;  his 
passport  was  in  order  and  the  man  seemed  all  right. 
On  the  second  night  also.  On  the  third  he  did  not 
leave  the  house,  sitting  on  the  window-seat  of  the  cor- 
ridor the  whole  day,  and  of  course  he  remained  over 
that  night  too.  Well,  I  thought,  just  see  how  he  has 
forced  himself  upon  you.  You  have  to  give  him  to 
eat  and  to  drink  and  to  shelter  him.  All  a  poor  man 
needs  is  some  one  to  sponge  upon  him.  I  soon  found 
out  that  once  before  he  had  attached  himself  to  a  man 
just  as  he  had  now  attached  himself  to  me;  they  drank 
together,  but  the  other  one  soon  died  of  some  deep- 
seated  sorrow.  I  thought  and  thought:  What  shall  I 
do  with  him?  Drive  him  out — my  conscience  would 
not  allow  it — I  felt  very  sorry  for  him:  he  was  such 
a  wretched,  forlorn  creature,  terrible!  And  so  dumb 
he  did  not  ask  for  anything,  only  sat  quietly  and 
looked  you  straight  in  the  eyes,  just  like  a  faithful 
little  dog.  That  is  how  drink  can  ruin  a  man.  And 
I  thought  to  myself :  Well,  suppose  I  say  to  him :  'Get 


116  FEODOR   DOSTOIEVSKI 

out  of  here,  Emelian ;  you  have  nothing  to  do  in  here, 
you  come  to  the  wrong  person;  I  will  soon  have  noth- 
ing to  eat  myself,  so  how  do  you  expect  me  to  feed 
you?'  And  I  tried  to  imagine  what  he  would  do  after 
I'd  told  him  all  this.  And  I  could  see  how  he  would 
look  at  me  for  a  long  time  after  he  had  heard  me, 
without  understanding  a  word;  how  at  last  he  would 
understand  what  I  was  driving  at,  and,  rising  from 
the  window-seat,  take  his  little  bundle — I  see  it  before 
me  now — a  red-checked  little  bundle  full  of  holes,  in 
which  he  kept  God  knows  what,  and  which  he  carted 
along  with  him  wherever  he  went;  how  he  would 
brush  and  fix  up  his  worn  cloak  a  little,  so  that  it 
would  look  a  bit  more  decent  and  not  show  so  much 
the  holes  and  patches — he  was  a  man  of  very  fine  feel- 
ings !  How  he  would  have  opened  the  door  afterward 
and  would  have  gone  forth  with  tears  in  his  eyes. 

"Well,  should  a  man  be  allowed  to  perish  alto- 
gether? I  all  at  once  felt  heartily  sorry  for  him;  but 
at  the  same  time  I  thought :  And  what  about  me,  am 
I  any  better  off?  And  I  said  to  myself:  Well,  Eme- 
lian, you  will  not  feast  overlong  at  my  expense;  soon 
I  shall  have  to  move  from  here  myself,  and  then  you 
will  not  find  me  again.  Well,  sir,  my  baron  soon  left 
for  his  estate  with  all  his  household,  telling  me  before 
he  went  that  he  was  very  well  satisfied  with  my  ser- 
vices, and  would  gladly  employ  me  again  on  his  return 
to  the  capital.  A  fine  man  my  baron  was  but  he  died 
the  same  year. 

"Well,  after  I  had  escorted  my  baron  and  his  fam- 
ily a  little  way,  I  took  my  things  and  the  little  money 


THE  THIEF  117 

I  had  saved  up,  and  went  to  live  with  an  old  woman  I 
knew,  who  rented  out  a  corner  of  the  room  she  occu- 
pied by  herself.  She  used  to  be  a  nurse  in  some  well- 
to-do  family,  and  now,  in  her  old  age,  they  had  pen- 
sioned her  off.  Well,  I  thought  to  myself,  now  it  is 
good-by  to  you,  Emelian,  dear  man,  you  will  not  find 
me  now!  And  what  do  you  think,  sir?  When  I  re- 
turned in  the  evening — I  had  paid  a  visit  to  an  ac- 
quaintance of  mine — whom  should  I  see  but  Emelian 
sitting  quietly  upon  my  trunk  with  his  red-checked 
bundle  by  his  side.  He  was  wrapped  up  in  his  poor 
little  cloak,  and  was  awaiting  my  home-coming.  He 
must  have  been  quite  lonesome,  because  he  had  bor- 
rowed a  prayer-book  of  the  old  woman  and  held  it  up- 
side down.  He  had  found  me  after  all!  My  hands 
fell  helplessly  at  my  sides.  Well,  I  thought,  there  is 
nothing  to  be  done,  why  did  I  not  drive  him  away  first 
off?  And  I  only  asked  him:  'Have  you  taken  your 
passport  along,  Emelian?'  Then  I  sat  down,  sir,  and 
began  to  turn  the  matter  over  in  my  mind:  Well, 
could  he,  a  roving  man,  be  much  in  my  way?  And 
after  I  had  considered  it  well,  I  decided  that  he  would 
not,  and  besides,  he  would  be  of  very  little  expense  to 
me.  Of  course,  he  wpuld  have  to  be  fed,  but  what 
does  that  amount  to?  Some  bread  in  the  morning 
and,  to  make  it  a  little  more  appetizing,  a  little  onion 
or  so.  For  the  midday  meal  again  some  bread  and 
onion,  and  for  the  evening  again  onion  and  bread,  and 
some  kvass,  and,  if  some  cabbage-soup  should  happen 
to  come  our  way,  then  we  could  both  fill  up  to  the 
throat.  I  ate  little,  and  Emelian,  who  was  a  drinking 


118  FEODOR  DOSTOIEVSKI 

man,  surely  ate  almost  nothing:  all  he  wanted  was 
vodka.  He  would  be  the  undoing  of  me  with  his 
drinking;  but  at  the  same  time  I  felt  a  curious  feeling 
creep  over  me.  It  seemed  as  if  life  would  be  a  burden 
to  me  if  Emelian  went  away.  And  so  I  decided  then 
and  there  to  be  his  father-benefactor.  I  would  put 
him  on  his  legs,  I  thought,  save  him  from  perishing, 
and  gradually  wean  him  from  drink.  Just  you  wait, 
I  thought.  Stay  with  me,  Emelian,  but  stand  pat 
now.  Obey  the  word  of  command ! 

"Well,  I  thought  to  myself,  I  will  begin  by  teaching 
him  some  work,  but  not  at  once;  let  him  first  enjoy 
himself  a  bit,  and  I  will  in  the  mean  while  look  around 
and  discover  what  he  finds  easiest,  and  would  be  capa- 
ble of  doing,  because  you  must  know,  sir,  a  man  must 
have  a  calling  and  a  capacity  for  a  certain  work  to  be 
able  to  do  it  properly.  And  I  began  stealthily  to  ob- 
serve him.  And  a  hard  subject  he  was,  that  Emelian! 
At  first  I  tried  to  get  at  him  with  a  kind  word.  Thus 
and  thus  I  would  speak  to  him :  'Emelian,  you  had  bet- 
ter take  more  care  of  yourself  and  try  to  fix  yourself 
up  a  little. 

"  'Give  up  drinking.  Just  look  at  yourself,  man, 
you  are  all  ragged,  your  cloak  looks  more  like  a  sieve 
than  anything  else.  It  is  not  nice.  It  is  about  time 
for  you  to  come  to  your  senses  and  know  when  you 
have  had  enough.' 

"He  listened  to  me,  my  Emelian  did,  with  lowered 
head;  he  had  already  reached  that  state,  poor  fellow, 
when  the  drink  affected  his  tongue  and  he  could  not 
utter  a  sensible  word.  You  talk  to  him  about  cucum- 


THE  THIEF  .    119 

bers,  and  he  answers  beans.  He  listened,  listened  to 
me  for  a  long  time,  and  then  he  would  sigh  deeply. 

"  *  What  are  you  sighing  for,  Emelian  ?'  I  ask  him. 

"  'Oh,  it  is  nothing,  Astafi  Ivanich,  do  not  worry. 
Only  what  I  saw  to-day,  Astafi  Ivanich — two  women 
fighting  about  a  basket  of  huckleberries  that  one  of 
them  had  upset  by  accident/ 

"Well,  what  of  that?' 

"  'And  the  woman  whose  berries  were  scattered 
snatched  a  like  basket  of  huckleberries  from  the  other 
woman's  hand,  and  not  only  threw  them  on  the 
ground,  but  stamped  all  over  them/ 

"  'Well,  but  what  of  that,  Emelian?' 

"  'Ech !'  I  think  to  myself,  'Emelian !  You  have  lost 
your  poor  wits  through  the  cursed  drink !' 

"  'And  again/  Emelian  says,  'a  baron  lost  a  bill  on 
the  Gorokhova  Street — or  was  it  on  the  Sadova?  A 
muzhik  saw  him  drop  it,  and  says,  "My  luck,"  but  here 
another  one  interfered  and  says,  "No,  it  is  my  luck! 
I  saw  it  first.  .  .  /" 

"Well,  Emelian  ?' 

"  'And  the  two  muzhiks  startedj  a  fight,  Astafi 
Ivanich,  and  the  upshot  was  that  a  policeman  came, 
picked  up  the  money,  handed  it  back  to  the  baron,  and 
threatened  to  put  the  muzhiks  under  lock  for  raising 
a  disturbance/ 

"  'But  what  of  that?  What  is  there  wonderful  or 
edifying  in  that,  Emelian?' 

"  'Well,  nothing,  but  the  people  laughed,  Astafi 
Ivanich/ 

"'E-ch,  Emelian  t     What  have  the  people  to  do 


120  FEODOR  DOSTOIEVSKI 

with  it  ?'  I  said.  'You  have  sold  your  immortal  soul  for 
a  copper.  But  do  you  know  what  I  will  tell  you, 
Emelian?' 

"What,  Astafi  Ivanich  ?* 

"'You'd  better  take  up  some  work,  really  you 
should.  I  am  telling  you  for  the  hundredth  time  that 
you  should  have  pity  on  yourself  !' 

'"But  what  shall  I  do,  Astafi  Ivanich?  I  do  not 
know  where  to  begin  and  no  one  would  employ  me, 
Astafi  Ivanich.' 

"  'That  is  why  they  drove  you  out  of  service,  Eme- 
lian;  it  is  all  on  account  of  drink!' 

"  'And  to-day/  said  Emelian,  'they  called  Vlass  the 
barkeeper  into  the  office/ 

"  'What  did  they  call  him  for,  Emelian?'  I  asked. 

"  'I  don't  know  why,  Astafi  Ivanich.  I  suppose  it 
was  needed,  so  they  called  him/ 

"  'Ech,'  I  thought  to  myself,  'no  good  will  come  of 
either  of  us,  Emelian !  It  is  for  our  sins  that  God  is 
punishing  us !' 

"Well,  what  could  a  body  do  with  such  a  man, 
sir! 

"But  he  was  sly,  the  fellow  was,  I  tell  you!  He 
listened  to  me,  listened,  and  at  last  it  seems  it  began 
to  tire  him,  and  as  quick  as  he  would  notice  that  I  was 
growing  angry  he  would  take  his  cloak  and  slip  out — 
and  that  was  the  last  to  be  seen  of  him!  He  would 
not  show  up  the  whole  day,  and  only  in  the  evening 
would  he  return,  as  drunk  as  a  lord.  Who  treated  him 
to  drinks,  or  where  he  got  the  money  for  it,  God  only 
knows;  not  from  me,  surely!  .  .  , 


THE  THIEF  121 

"  'Well/  I  say  to  him,  'Emelian,  you  will  have  to 
give  up  drink,  do  you  hear?  you  will  have  to  give  it 
up!  The  next  time  you  return  tipsy,  you  will  have 
to  sleep  on  the  stairs.  I'll  not  let  you  in !' 

"After  this  Emelian  kept  to  the  house  for  two  days; 
on  the  third  he  once  more  sneaked  out.  I  wait  and 
wait  for  him;  he  does  not  come!  I  must  confess  that 
I  was  kind  of  frightened;  besides,  I  felt  terribly  sorry 
for  him.  What  had  I  done  to  the  poor  devil !  I  thought. 
I  must  have  frightened  him  off.  Where  could  he  have 
gone  to  now,  the  wretched  creature?  Great  God,  he 
may  perisH  yet!  The  night  passed  and  he  did  not 
return.  In  the  morning  I  went  out  into  the  hall,  and 
he  was  lying  there  with  his  head  on  the  lower  step, 
almost  stiff  with  cold. 

"  *  What  is  the  matter  with  you,  Emelian  ?  The 
Lord  save  you!  Why  are  you  here?' 

"  'But  you  know,  Astafi  Ivanich/  he  replied,  'you 
were  angry  with  me  the  other  day;  I  aggravated  you, 
and  you  promised  to  make  me  sleep  in  the  hall,  and 
I — so  I— did  not  dare — to  come  in — and  lay  down 
here/ 

"  'It  would  be  better  for  you,  Emelian/  I  said,  filled 
with  anger  and  pity,  'to  find  a  better  employment  than 
needlessly  watching  the  stairs!* 

"  'But  what  other  employment,  Astafi  Ivanich  ?' 

"  'Well,  wretched  creature  that  you  are/  here  anger 
had  flamed  up  in  me,  'if  you  would  try  to  learn  the 
tailoring  art.  Just  look  at  the  cloak  you  are  wearing ! 
Not  only  is  it  full  of  holes,  but  you  are  sweeping  the 
stairs  with  it !  You  should  at  least  take  a  needle  and 


122  FEODOR  DOSTOIEVSKI 

mend  it  a  little,  so  it  would  look  more  decent.  E-ch, 
a  wretched  tippler  you  are,  and  nothing  more !' 

"Well,  sir!  What  do  you  think!  He  did  take 
the  needle — I  had  told  him  only  for  fun,  and  there 
he  got  scared  and  actually  took  the  needle.  He 
threw  off  his  cloak  and  began  to  put  the  thread 
through ;  well,  it  was  easy  to  see  what  would  come  of 
it ;  his  eyes  began  to  fill  and  reddened,  his  hands  trem- 
bled! He  pushed  and  pushed  the  thread— could  not 
get  it  through:  he  wetted  it,  rolled  it  between  his 
fingers,  smoothed  it  out,  but  it  would  not — go!  He 
flung  it  from  him  and  looked  at  me. 

"  'Well,  Ernelian !'  I  said,  'you  served  me  right !  If 
people  had  seen  it  I  would  have  died  with  shame!  I 
only  told  you  all  this  for  fun,  and  because  I  was  angry 
with  you.  Never  mind  sewing;  may  the  Lord  keep 
you  from  sin !  You  need  not  do  anything,  only  keep 
out  of  mischief,  and  do  not  sleep  on  the  stairs  and  put 
me  to  shame  thereby  P 

"  'But  what  shall  I  do,  Astafi  Ivanich ;  I  know  my- 
self that  I  am  always  tipsy  and  unfit  for  anything! 
I  only  make  you,  my  be — benefactor,  angry  for 
nothing/ 

"And  suddenly  his  bluish  lips  began  to  tremble,  and 
a  tear  rolled  down  his  unshaven,  pale  cheek,  then 
another  and  another  one,  and  he  broke  into  a  very 
flood  of  tears,  my  Emelian.  Father  in  Heaven !  I  felt 
as  if  some  one  had  cut  me  over  the  heart  with  a 
knife. 

"'E-ch  you,  sensitive  mari;  why,  I  never  thought! 
And  who  could  have  thought  such  a  thing!  No,  I'd 


( 

THE  THIEF  123 

better  give  you  up  altogether,  Emelian;  do  as  you 
please.' 

"Well,  sir,  what  else  is  there  to  tell !  But  the  whole 
thing  is  so  insignificant  and  unimportant,  it  is  really 
not  worth  while  wasting  words  about  it;  for  instance, 
you,  sir,  would  not  give  two  broken  groschen  for  it; 
but  I,  I  would  give  much,  if  I  had  much,  that  this 
thing  had  never  happened!  I  owned,  sir,  a  pair  of 
breeches,  blue,  in  checks,  a  first-class  article,  the  devil 
take  them — a  rich  landowner  who  came  here  on  busi- 
ness ordered  them  from  me,  but  refused  afterward  to 
take  them,  saying  that  they  were  too  tight,  and  left 
them  with  me. 

"Well,  I  thought,  the  cloth  is  of  first-rate  qual- 
ity !  I  can  get  five  rubles  for  them  in  the  old-clothes 
market-place,  and,  if  not,  I  can  cut  a  fine  pair  of  panta- 
loons out  of  them  for  some  St.  Petersburg  gent,  and 
have  a  piece  left  over  for  a  vest  for  myself.  Every- 
thing counts  with  a  poor  man!  And  Emelian  was  at 
that  time  in  sore  straits.  I  saw  that  he  had  given  up 
drinking,  first  one  day,  then  a  second,  and  a  third, 
and  looked  so  downhearted  and  sad. 

"Well,  I  thought,  it  is  either  that  the  poor  fellow 
lacks  the  necessary  coin  or  maybe  he  has  entered  on 
the  right  path,  and  has  at  last  listened  to  good  sense. 

"Well,  to  make  a  long  story  short,  an  important 
holiday  came  just  at  that  time,  and  I  went  to  ves- 
pers. When  I  came  back  I  saw  Emelian  sitting  on  the 
window-seat  as  drunk  as  a  lord.  Eh!  I  thought,  so 
that  is  what  you  are  about!  And  I  go  to  my  trunk 
to  get  out  something  I  needed.  I  look!  The  breeches 


124  FEODOR  DOSTOIEVSKI 

are  not  there.  I  rummage  about  in  this  place  and 
that  place :  gone !  Well,  after  I  had  searched  all  over 
and  saw  that  they  were  missing  for  fair,  I  felt  as  if 
something  had  gone  through  me !  I  went  after  the  old 
woman — as  to  Emelian,  though  there  was  evidence 
against  him  in  his  being  drunk,  I  somehow  never 
thought  of  him ! 

"/No/  says  my  old  woman;  'the  good  Lord  keep 
you,  gentleman,  what  do  I  need  breeches  for?  can  I 
wear  them?  I  myself  missed  a  skirt  the  other  day. 
I  know  nothing  at  all  about  it/ 

"  'Well/  I  asked,  'has  any  one  called  here?' 

"  'No  one  called/  she  said.  'I  was  in  all  the  time ; 
your  friend  here  went  out  for  a  short  while  and  then 
came  back ;  here  he  sits !  Why  don't  you  ask  him  ?' 

"  'Did  you  happen,  for  some  reason  or  other,  Eme- 
lian, to  take  the  breeches  out  of  the  trunk  ?  The  ones, 
you  remember,  which  were  made  for  the  landowner?' 

"  'No/  he  says,  'I  have  not  taken  them,  Astafi 
Ivanich/ 

"  'What  could  have  happened  to  them  ?'  Again  I 
began  to  search,  but  nothing  came  of  it!  And  Eme- 
lian sat  and  swayed  to  and  fro  on  the  window-seat. 

"I  was  on  my  knees  before  the  open  trunk,  just  in 
front  of  him.  Suddenly  I  threw  a  sidelong  glance 
at  him.  Ech,  I  thought,  and  felt  very  hot  round  the 
heart,  and  my  face  grew  very  red.  Suddenly  my 
eyes  encountered  Emelian's. 

"  'No/  he  says,  'Astafi  Ivanich.  You  perhaps  think 
that  I — you  know  what  I  mean — but  I  have  not  taken 
them/ 


THE  THIEF  125 

"  'But  where  have  they  gone,  Emelian'?' 

"  'No/  he  says,  'Astafi  Ivanich,  I  have  not  seen  them 
at  all/ 

"  'Well,  then,  you  think  they  simply  went  and  got 
lost  by  themselves,  Emelian?' 

"  'Maybe  they  did,  Astafi  Ivanich/ 

"After  this  I  would  not  waste  another  word  on  him. 
I  rose  from  my  knees,  locked  the  trunk,  and  after  I 
had  lighted  the  lamp  I  sat  down  to  work.  I  was  re- 
making a  vest  for  a  government  clerk,  who  lived  on 
the  floor  below.  But  I  was  terribly  rattled,  just  the 
same.  It  would  have  been  much  easier  to  bear,  I 
thought,  if  all  my  wardrobe  had  burned  to !  ashes. 
Emelian,  it  seems,  felt  that  I  was  deeply  angered.  It 
is  always  so,  sir,  when  a  man  is  guilty;  he  always 
feels  beforehand  when  trouble  approaches,  as  a  bird 
feels  the  coming  storm. 

"  'And  do  you  know,  Astafi  Ivanich/  he  suddenly 
began,  'the  leach  married  the  coachman's  widow 
to-day.' 

"I  just  looked  at  him;  but,  it  seems,  looked  at  him 
so  angrily  that  he  understood:  I  saw  him  rise  from 
his  seat,  approach  the  bed,  and  begin  to  rummage  in 
it,  continually  repeating :  'Where  could  they  have  gone^ 
vanished,  as  if  the  devil  had  taken  them !' 

"I  waited  to  see  what  was  coming;  I  saw  that  my 
Emelian  had  crawled  under  the  bed.  I  could  contain 
myself  no  longer. 

"  'Look  here/  I  said.  'What  makes  you  crawl  under 
the  bed?' 

"  'I  am  looking  for  the  breeches,  Astafi  Ivanich/  said 


126  FEODOR  DOSTOIEVSKI 

Emelian  from  under  the  bed.  'Maybe  they  got  here 
somehow  or  other/ 

"  'But  what  makes  you,  sir  (in  my  anger  I  addressed 
him  as  if  he  was — somebody),  what  makes  you  trouble 
yourself  on  account  of  such  a  plain  man  as  I  am ;  dirty- 
ing your  knees  for  nothing !' 

"  'But,  Astafi  Ivanich —  I  did  not  mean  anything-— 
I  only  thought  maybe  if  we  look  for  them  here  we 
may  find  them  yet/ 

"  'Mm !    Just  listen  to  me  a  moment,  Emelian !' 

"'What,  Astafi  Ivanich?' 

"  'Have  you  not  simply  stolen  them  from  me  like 
a  rascally  thief,  serving  me  so  for  my  bread  and  salt  ?' 
I  said  to  him,  beside  myself  with  wrath  at  the  sight 
of  him  crawling  under  the  bed  for  something  he  knew 
was  not  there. 

"  'No,  Astafi  Ivanich/  For  a  long  time  he  remained 
lying  flat  under  the  bed.  Suddenly  he  crawled  out  and 
stood  before  me — I  seem  to  see  him  even  now — as  ter- 
rible a  sight  as  sin  itself. 

"  'No/  he  says  to  me  in  a  trembling  voice,  shivering 
through  all  his  body  and  pointing  to  his  breast  with 
his  finger,  so  that  all  at  once  I  became  scared  and  could 
not  move  from  my  seat  on  the  window.  'I  have  not 
taken  your  breeches,  Astafi  Ivanich/ 

"  'Well/  I  answered,  'Emelian,  forgive  me  if  in  my 
foolishness  I  have  accused  you  wrongfully.  As  to  the 
breeches,  let  them  go  hang;  we  will  get  along  without 
them.  We  have  our  hands,  thank  God,  we  will  not 
have  to  steal,  and  now,  too,  we  will  not  have  to  sponge 
on  another  poor  man ;  we  will  earn  our  living/ 


THE  THIEF  127 

"Emelian  listened  to  me  and  remained  standing 
before  me  for  some  time,  then  he  sat  down  and  sat 
motionless  the  whole  evening;  when  I  lay  down  to 
sleep,  he  was  still  sitting  in  the  same  place. 

"In  the  morning,  when  I  awoke,  I  found  him  sleep- 
ing on  the  bare  floor,  wrapped  up  in  his  cloak;  he 
felt  his  humiliation  so  strongly  that  he  had  no  heart 
to  go  and  lie  down  on  the  bed. 

"Well,  sir,  from  that  day  on  I  conceived  a  terrible 
dislike  for  the  man;  that  is,  rather,  I  hated  him  the 
first  few  days,  feeling  as  if,  for  instance,  my  own  son 
had  robbed  me  and  given  me  deadly  offense.  Ech, 
I  thought,  Emelian,  Emelian!  And  Emelian,  my 
dear  sir,  had  gone  on  a  two  weeks*  spree.  Drunk 
to  bestiality  from  morning  till  night.  And  during 
the  whole  two  weeks  he  had  not  uttered  a  word.  I 
suppose  he  was  consumed  the  whole  time  by  a  deep- 
seated  grief,  or  else  he  was  trying  in  this  way  to  make 
an  end  to  himself.  At  last  he  gave  up  drinking.  I 
suppose  he  had  no  longer  the  wherewithal  to  buy  vodka 
— had  drunk  up  every  copeck — and  he  once  more  took 
up  his  old  place  on  the  window-seat.  I  remember  that 
he  sat  there  for  three  whole  days  without  a  word;  sud- 
denly I  see  him  weep;  sits  there  and  cries,  but  what 
crying!  The  tears  come  from  his  eyes  in  showers, 
drip,  drip,  as  if  he  did  not  know  that  he  was  shedding 
them.  It  is  very  painful,  sir,  to  see  a  grown  man 
weep,  all  the  more  when  the  man  is  of  advanced 
years,  like  Emelian,  and  cries  from  grief  and  a  sor- 
rowful heart. 

"  'What  ails  you,  Emelian  ?'  I  say  to  him. 


128  FEODOR  DOSTOIEVSKI 

"He  starts  and  shivers.  This  was  the  first  time  I 
had  spoken  to  him  since  that  eventful  day. 

"  'It  is  nothing — Astafi  Ivanich/ 

"  'God  keep  you,  Emelian ;  never  you  mind  it  all. 
Let  bygones  be  bygones.  Don't  take  it  to  heart  so, 
man !'  I  felt  very  sorry  for  him. 

"  'It  is  only  that — that  I  would  like  to  do  something 
— some  kind  of  work,  Astafi  Ivanich/ 

"  'But  what  kind  of  work,  Emelian?' 

"  'Oh,  any  kind.  Maybe  I  will  go  into  some  kind  of 
service,  as  before.  I  have  already  been  at  my  former 
employer's  asking.  It  will  not  do  for  me,  Astafi 
Ivanich,  to  use  you  any  longer.  I,  Astafi  Ivanich,  will 
perhaps  obtain  some  employment,  and  then  I  will  pay 
you  for  everything,  food  and  all/ 

"  'Don't,  Emelian,  don't.  Well,  let  us  say  you  com- 
mitted a  sin ;  well,  it  is  all  over !  The  devil  take  it  all ! 
Let  us  live  as  before — as  if  nothing  had  happened !" 

"  'You,  Astafi  Ivanich,  you  are  probably  hinting 
about  that.  But  I  have  not  taken  your  breeches.' 

"  'Well,  just  as  you  please,  Emelian !' 

"  'No,  Astafi  Ivanich,  evidently  I  can  not  live  with 
you  longer.  You  will  excuse  me,  Astafi  Ivanich.' 

"  'But  God  be  with  you,  Emelian,'  I  said  to  him ; 
'who  is  it  that  is  offending  you  or  driving  you  out  of 
the  house?  Is  it  I  who  am  doing  it?' 

"  'No,  but  it  is  unseemly  for  me  to  misuse  your 
hospitality  any  longer,  Astafi  Ivanich;  'twill  be  better 
to  go/ 

"I  saw  that  he  had  in  truth  risen  from  his  place  and 
donned  his  ragged  cloak — he  felt  offended,  the  man 


THE  THIEF  129 

did,  and  had  gotten  it  into  his  head  to  leave,  and — 
basta. 

"  'But  where  are  you  going,  Emelian  ?  Listen  to 
sense :  what  are  you  ?  Where  will  you  go  ?' 

"  'No,  it  is  best  so,  Astafi  Ivanich,  do  not  try  to 
keep  me  back/  and  he  once  more  broke  into  tears; 
'let  me  be,  Astafi  Ivanich,  you  are  no  longer  what  you 
used  to  be/ 

"  'Why  am  I  not?  I  am  just  the  same.  But  you 
will  perish  when  left  alone — like  a  foolish  little  child, 
Emelian/ 

"  'No,  Astafi  Ivanich.  Lately,  before  you  leave  the 
house,  you  have  taken  to  locking  your  trunk,  and  I, 
Astafi  Ivanich,  see  it  and  weep —  No,  it  is  better 
you  should  let  me  go,  Astafi  Ivanich,  and  forgive  me 
if  I  have  offended  you  in  any  way  during  the  time  we 
have  lived  together/ 

"Well,  sir!  And  so  he  did  go  away.  I  waited  a 
day  and  thought :  Oh,  he  will  be  back  toward  evening. 
But  a  day  passes,  then  another,  and  he  does  not  return. 
On  the  third — he  does  not  return.  I  grew  frightened, 
and  a  terrible  sadness  gripped  at  my  heart.  I  stopped 
eating  and  drinking,  and  lay  whole  nights  without  clos- 
ing my  eyes.  The  man  had  wholly  disarmed  me!  On 
the  fourth  day  I  went  to  look  for  him ;  I  looked  in  all 
the  taverns  and  pot-houses  in  the  vicinity,  and  asked 
if  any  one  had  seen  him.  No,  Emelian  had  wholly 
disappeared !  Maybe  he  has  done  away  with  his  mis- 
erable existence,  I  thought.  Maybe,  when  in  his 
cups,  he  has  perished  like  a  dog,  somewhere  under 
a  fence.  I  came  home  half  dead  with  fatigue  and 


130  FEODOR  DOSTOIEVSKI 

despair,  and  decided  to  go  out  the  next  day  again  to 
look  for  him,  cursing  myself  bitterly  for  letting  the 
foolish,  helpless  man  go  away  from  me.  But  at  dawn 
of  the  fifth  day  (it  was  a  holiday)  I  heard  the  door 
creak.  And  whom  should  I  see  but  Emelian!  But  in 
what  a  state!  His  face  was  bludsh  and  his  hair  was 
full  of  mud,  as  if  he  had  slept  in  the  street;  and  he 
had  grown  thin,  the  poor  fellow  had,  as  thin  as  a  rail. 
He  took  off  his  poor  cloak,  sat  down  on  my  trunk,  and 
began  to  look  at  me.  Well,  sir,  I  was  overjoyed,  but 
at  the  same  time  felt  a  greater  sadness  than  ever  pull- 
ing at  my  heart-strings.  This  is  how  it  was,  sir:  I 
felt  that  if  a  thing  like  that  had  happened  to  me,  that 
is — I  would  sooner  have  perished  like  a  dog,  but  would 
not  have  returned.  And  Emelian  did.  Well,  naturally, 
it  is  hard  to  see  a  man  in  such  a  state.  I  began  to 
coddle  and  to  comfort  him  in  every  way. 

"  'Well/  I  said,  'Emelian,  I  am  very  glad  you  have 
returned;  if  you  had  not  come  so  soon,  you  would 
not  have  found  me  in,  as  I  intended  to  go  hunting  for 
you.  Have  you  had  anything  to  eat?' 

"  'I  have  eaten,  Astafi  Ivanich.' 

"  'I  doubt  it.  Well,  here  is  some  cabbage  soup — 
left  over  from  yesterday;  a  nice  soup  with  some  meat 
in  it — not  the  meagre  kind.  And  here  you  have  some 
bread  and  a  little  onion.  Go  ahead  and  eat ;  it  will  do 
you  good/ 

"I  served  it  to  him;  and  immediately  realized  that 
he  must  have  been  starving  for  the  last  three  days — 
such  an  appetite  as  he  showed!  So  it  was  hunger 
that  had  driven  him  back  to  me.  Looking  at  the  poor 


THE  THIEF  131 

fellow,  I  was  deeply  touched,  and  decided  to  run 
into  the  nearby  dram-shop.  I  will  get  him  some  vodka, 
I  thought,  to  liven  him  up  a  bit  and  make  peace  with 
him.  It  is  enough.  I  have  nothing  against  the  poor 
devil  any  longer.  And  so  I  brought  the  vodka  and 
said  to  him:  'Here,  Emelian,  let  us  drink  to  each 
other's  health  in  honor  of  the  holiday.  Come,  take 
a  drink.  It  will  do  you  good/ 

"He  stretched  out  his  hand,  greedily  stretched  it 
out,  you  know,  and  stopped;  then,  after  a  while,  he 
lifted  the  glass,  carried  it  to  his  mouth,  spilling  the 
liquor  on  his  sleeve;  at  last  he  did  carry  it  to  his 
mouth,  but  immediately  put  it  back  on  the  table. 

"  'Well,  why  don't  you  drink,  Emelian?' 

"  'But  no,  I'll  not,  Astafi  Ivanich.' 

"'You'll  not  drink  it !' 

"  'But  I,  Astafi  Ivanich,  I  think— I'll  not  drink  any 
more,  Astafi  Ivanich.' 

"  'Is  it  for  good  you  have  decided  to  give  it  up, 
Emelian,  or  only  for  to-day?' 

"He  did  not  reply,  and  after  a  while  I  saw  him  lean 
his  head  on  his  hand,  and  I  asked  him :  'Are  you  not 
feeling  well,  Emelian?' 

"  'Yes,  pretty  well,  Astafi  Ivanich.' 

"I  made  him  go  to  bed,  and  saw  that  he  was  truly 
in  a  bad  way.  His  head  was  burning  hot  and  he  was 
shivering  with  ague.  I  sat  by  him  the  whole  day; 
toward  evening  he  grew  worse.  I  prepared  a  meal 
for  him  of  kvass,  butter,  and  some  onion,  and  threw 
in  it  a  few  bits  of  bread,  and  said  to  him :  "Go  ahead 
and  take  some  food;  maybe  you  will  feel  better!' 


132  FEODOR  DOSTOIEVSKI 

"But  he  only  shook  his  head:  'No,  Astafi  Ivanich, 
I  shall  not  have  any  dinner  to-day/ 

"I  had  some  tea  prepared  for  him,  giving  a  lot  of 
trouble  to  the  poor  old  woman  from  whom  I  rented 
a  part  of  the  room — but  he  would  not  take  even  a 
little  tea. 

"Well,  I  thought  to  myself,  it  is  a  bad  case.  On  the 
third  morning  I  went  to  see  the  doctor,  an  acquaint- 
ance of  mine,  Dr.  Kostopravov,  who  had  treated  me 
when  I  still  lived  in  my  last  place.  The  doctor  came, 
examined  the  poor  fellow,  and  only  said:  'There  was 
no  need  of  sending  for  me,  he  is  already  too  far  gone, 
but  you  can  give  him  some  powders  which  I  will 
prescribe/ 

"Well,  I  didn't  give  him  the  powders  at  all,  as  I 
understood  that  the  doctor  was  only  doing  it  for 
form's  sake ;  and  in  the  mean  while  came  the  fifth  day. 

"He  lay  dying  before  me,  sir.  I  sat  on  the  window- 
seat  with  some  work  I  had  on  hand  lying  on  my  lap. 
The  old  woman  was  raking  the  stove.  We  were  all 
silent,  and  my  heart  was  breaking  over  this  poor, 
shiftless  creature,  as  if  he  were  my  own  son  whom  I 
was  losing.  I  knew  that  Emelian  was  gazing  at  me 
all  the  time;  I  noticed  from  the  earliest  morning  that 
he  longed  to  tell  me  something,  but  seemingly  dared 
not.  At  last  I  looked  at  him,  and  saw  that  he  did  not 
take  his  eyes  from  me,  but  that  whenever  his  eyes  met 
mine,  he  immediately  lowered  his  own. 

"'Astafi  Ivanich !' 

"' What,  Emelian?' 

"  'What  if  my  cloak  should  be  carried  over  to  the 


THE  THIEF  133 

old  clothes  market,  would  they  give  much  for  it,  Astafi 
Ivanich  ?' 

"  'Well,  I  said,  'I  do  not  know  for  certain,  but  three 
rubles  they  would  probably  give  for  it,  Emelian.'  I 
said  it  only  to  comfort  the  simple-minded  creature; 
in  reality  they  would  have  laughed  in  my  face 
for  even  thinking  to  sell  such  a  miserable,  ragged 
thing. 

"  'And  I  thought  that  they  might  give  a  little  more, 
Astafi  Ivanich.  It  is  made  of  cloth,  so  how  is  it  that 
they  would  not  wish  to  pay  more  than  three  rubles 
for  it?' 

"  'Well,  Emelian,  if  you  wisK  to  sell  it,  then  of 
course  you  may  ask  more  for  it  at  first/ 

"Emelian  was  silent  for  a  moment,  then  he  once 
more  called  to  me. 

"'Astafi  Ivanich !' 

'" What  is  it,  Emelian  ?' 

"  'You  will  sell  the  cloak  after  I  am  no  more ;  no 
need  of  burying  me  in  it,  I  can  well  get  along  without 
it;  it  is  worth  something,  and  may  come  handy  to 
you/ 

"Here  I  felt  such  a  painful  gripping  at  my  heart 
as  I  can  not  even  express,  sir.  I  saw  that  the  sadness 
of  approaching  death  had  already  come  upon  the  man. 
Again  we  were  silent  for  some  time.  About  an  hour 
passed  in  this  way.  I  looked  at  him  again  and  saw 
that  he  was  still  gazing  at  me,  and  when  his  eyes  met 
mine  he  immediately  lowered  his. 

"'Would  you  like  a  drink  of  cold  water?'  I  asked 
him. 


134  THE  THIEF 

"  'Give  me  some,  and  may  God  repay  you,  Astafi 
Ivanich.' 

"  'Would  you  like  anything  else,  Emelian  ?' 

"  'No,  Astafi  Ivanich,  I  do  not  want  anything, 
but  I— ' 

"'What?' 

"  'You  know  that — ' 

"  'What  is  it  you  want,  Emelian  ?' 

"  'The  breeches —  You  know —  It  was  I  who  took 
them — Astafi  Ivanich — ' 

"  'Well/  I  said,  'the  great  God  will  forgive  you, 
Emelian,  poor,  unfortunate  fellow  that  you  are!  De- 
part in  peace/ 

"And  I  had  to  turn  away  my  head  for  a  moment 
because  grief  for  the  poor  devil  took  my  breath  away 
and  the  tears  came  in  torrents  from  my  eyes. 

'"Astafi  Ivanich!— ' 

"I  looked  at  him,  saw  that  he  wished  to  tell  me 
something  more,  tried  to  raise  himself,  and  was  mov- 
ing his  lips —  He  reddened  and  looked  at  me —  Sud- 
denly I  saw  that  he  began  to  grow  paler  and  paler ;  in 
a  moment  he  fell  with  his  head  thrown  back,  breathed 
once,  and  gave  his  soul  into  God's  keeping/' 


Tolstoi 


THE    LONG   EXILE 


BY    COUNT   LEO    NIKOLAIEVITCH   TOLSTOI 


Count  Tolstoi,  the  son  of  a  Russian  noble- 
man, was  born  in  1828,  so  he  is  to-day  an  old 
man.  The  greatest  book  that  has  come  out 
of  Russia  is  the  tragic  but  intensely  lifelike 
"Anna  Karenina"  published  when  Tolstoi  was 
forty-seven  years  old.  Much  of  his  early  work 
is  extremely  interesting  and  valuable,  for  artis- 
tic reasons,  but  his  late  years  have  been  de- 
voted almost  entirely  to  moralising  and  specu- 
lating. A  consensus  of  opinion  among  students 
of  Russian  literature  shows  that  they  consider 
"The  Long  Exile"  to  be  the  author's  best  short 
story. 


7— You  i 


THE    LONG   EXILE 

BY   COUNT   LEO   TOLSTOI 

"  God  sees  the  truth,  but  bides  his  time." 

ONCE  upon  a  time  there  lived  in  the  city  of 
Vladimir  a  young  merchant  named  Aksenof. 
He  had  two  shops  and  a  house. 

Aksenof  himself  had  a  ruddy  complexion  and  curly 
hair;  he  was  a  very  jolly  fellow  and  a  good  singer. 
When  he  was  young  he  used  to  drink  too  much,  and 
when  he  was  tipsy  he  was  turbulent ;  but  after  his  mar- 
riage he  ceased  drinking,  and  only  occasionally  had  a 
spree. 

One  time  in  summer  Aksenof  was  going  to  Nizhni1 
to  the  great  Fair.  As  he  was  about  to  bid  his  family 
good-by,  his  wife  said  to  him : 

"Ivan  Dmitrievitch,  do  not  go  to-day;  I  had  a 
dream,  and  dreamed  that  some  misfortune  befell 
you/' 

Aksenof  laughed  at  her,  and  said :  "You  are  always 
afraid  that  I  shall  go  on  a  spree  at  the  Fair/' 

His  wife  said :  "I  myself  know  not  what  I  am  afraid 
of,  but  I  had  such  a  strange  dream :  you  seemed  to  be 
coming  home  from  town,  and  you  took  off  your  hat, 
and  I  looked,  and  your  head  was  all  gray." 


Nizhni  Novgorod:  it  means  Lower  New  Town. 

Ti 

(137) 


Translated    by    Nathan    Haskell    Dole.    Copyright,    1888,    by   Thomas  Y. 
Crowell  &  Co. 


138  COUNT  LEO  TOLSTOI 

Aksenof  laughed.  "That  means  good  luck.  See,  I 
am  going  now.  I  will  bring  you  some  rich  remem- 
brances." 

And  he  bade  his  family  farewell  and  set  off. 

When  he  had  gone  half  his  journey,  he  fell  in  with 
a  merchant  of  his  acquaintance,  and  the  two  stopped 
together  at  the  same  tavern  for  the  night.  They  took 
tea  together,  and  went  to  sleep  in  two  adjoining 
rooms. 

Aksenof  did  not  care  to  sleep  long ;  he  awoke  in  the 
middle  of  the  night,  and  in  order  that  he  might  get  a 
good  start  while  it  was  cool  he  aroused  his  driver  and 
bade  him  harness  up,  went  down  into  the  smoky  hut, 
settled  his  account  with  the  landlord,  and  started  on 
his  way. 

After  he  had  driven  forty  versts,2  he  again  stopped 
to  get  something  to  eat;  he  rested  in  the  vestibule  of 
the  inn,  and  when  it  was  noon,  he  went  to  the  door- 
step and  ordered  the  samovar3  got  ready;  then  he 
took  out  his  guitar  and  began  to  play. 

Suddenly  a  troika4  with  a  bell  dashed  up  to  the  inn, 
and  from  the  equipage  leaped  an  official  with  two 
soldiers;  he  comes  directly  up  to  Aksenof  and  asks: 
"Who  are  you?  Where  did  you  come  from?" 

Aksenof  answers  without  hesitation,  and  asks  him 
if  he  would  not  have  a  glass  of  tea  with  him. 

But  the  official  keeps  on  with  his  questions :  "Where 

1  Nearly  twenty-six  and  a  half  miles. 
'Water-boiler  for  making  Russian  tea. 

*A  team  of  three  horses   harnessed   abreast:  the  outside  two 
gallop;  the  shaft  horse  trots. 


THE  LONG  EXILE  189 

clid  you  spend  last  night?  Were  you  alone  or  with  a 
merchant?  Have  you  seen  the  merchant  this  morn- 
ing? Why  did  you  leave  so  early  this  morning?" 

Aksenof  wondered  why  he  was  questioned  so 
closely;  but  he  told  everything  just  as  it  was,  and  he 
asks :  "Why  do  you  ask  me  so  many  questions  ?  I  am 
not  a  thief  or  a  murderer.  I  am  on  my  own  businessj 
there  is  nothing  to  question  me  about." 

Then  the  official  called  up  the  soldiers,  and  said :  "I 
am  the  police  inspector,  and  I  have  made  these  in- 
quiries of  you  because  the  merchant  with  whom  you 
spent  last  night  has  been  stabbed.  Show  me  your 
things,  and  you  men  search  him." 

They  went  into  the  tavern,  brought  in  the  trunk  and 
bag,  and  began  to  open  and  search  them.  Suddenly 
the  police  inspector  pulled  out  from  the  bag  a  knife, 
and  demanded:  "Whose  knife  is  this?" 

Aksenof  looked  and  saw  a  knife  covered  with  blood 
taken  from  his  bag,  and  he  was  frightened. 

"And  whose  blood  is  that  on  the  knife?" 

Aksenof  tried  to  answer,  but  he  could  not  articulate 
his  words: 

"I— I — don't— know —  I—  That  knife — it  te- 
net mine — " 

Then  the  police  inspector  said:  "This  morning  the 
merchant  was  found  stabbed  to  death  in  his  bed.  No 
one  except  you  could  have  done  it.  The  tavern  was 
locked  on  the  inside,  and  there  was  no  one  in  the  tavern 
except  yourself.  And  here  is  the  bloody  knife  in  your 
bag,  and  your  guilt  is  evident  in  your  face.  Tell  me 
how  you  killed  him  and  how  much  money  you  took 


140  COUNT  LEO  TOLSTOI 

from  him."  Aksenof  swore  that  he  had  not  done  it, 
that  he  had  not  seen  the  merchant  after  he  had  drunken 
tea  with  him,  that  the  only  money  that  he  had  with 
him— eight  thousand  rubles — was  his  own,  and  that 
the  knife  was  not  his. 

But  his  voice  trembled,  his  face  was  pale,  and  he 
was  all  quivering  with  fright,  like  a  guilty  person. 

The  police  inspector  called  the  soldiers,  commanded 
them  to  bind  Aksenof  and  take  him  to  the  wagon. 

When  they  took  him  to  the  wagon  with  his  feet 
tied,  Aksenof  crossed  himself  and  burst  into  tears. 

They  confiscated  Aksenofs  possessions  and  his 
money,  and  took  him  to  the  next  city  and  threw  him 
into  prison. 

They  sent  to  Vladimir  to  make  inquiries  about  Akse- 
nofs character,  and  all  the  merchants  and  citizens  of 
Vladimir  declared  that  Aksenof,  when  he  was  young, 
used  to  drink  and  was  wild,  but  that  now  he  was  a 
worthy  man.  Then  he  was  brought  up  for  judgment. 
He  was  sentenced  for  having  killed  the  merchant  and 
for  having  robbed  him  of  twenty  thousand  rubles. 

Aksenofs  wife  was  dumfounded  by  the  event,  and 
did  not  know  what  to  think.  Her  children  were  still 
small,  and  there  was  one  at  the  breast.  She  took  them 
all  with  her  and  journeyed  to  the  city  where  her  hus- 
band was  imprisoned. 

At  first  they  would  not  grant  her  admittance,  but 
afterward  she  got  permission  from  the  chief,  and  was 
taken  to  her  husband. 

When  she  saw  him  in  his  prison  garb,  in  chains  to- 
gether with  murderers,  she  fell  to  the  floor,  and  it 


THE  LONG  EXILE  141 

was  a  long  time  before  she  recovered  from  her  swoon. 
Then  she  placed  her  children  around  her,  sat  down 
amid  them,  and  began  to  tell  him  about  their  domestic 
affairs,  and  to  ask  him  about  everything  that  had  hap- 
pened to  him. 

He  told  her  the  whole  story. 

She  asked:  "What  is  to  be  the  result  of  it?" 

He  said :  "We  must  petition  the  Czar.  It  is  impos- 
sible that  an  innocent  man  should  be  condemned." 

The  wife  said  that  she  had  already  sent  in  a  petition 
to  the  Czar,  but  that  the  petition  had  not  been  granted. 
Aksenof  said  nothing,  but  was  evidently  very  much 
downcast. 

Then  his  wife  said :  "You  see  the  dream  that  I  had, 
when  I  dreamed  that  you  had  become  gray-headed, 
meant  something,  after  all.  Already  your  hair  has 
begun  to  turn  gray  with  trouble.  You  ought  to  have 
stayed  at  home  that  time." 

And  she  began  to  tear  her  hair,  and  she  said: 
"Vanya,5  my  dearest  husband,  tell  your  wife  the  truth : 
Did  you  commit  that  crime  or  not?" 

Aksenof  said:  "So  you,  too,  have  no  faith  in  me!" 
And  he  wrung  his  hands  and  wept. 

Then  a  soldier  came  and  said  that  it  was  time  for 
the  wife  and  children  to  go.  And  Aksenof  for  the  last 
time  bade  farewell  to  his  family. 

When  his  wife  was  gone,  Aksenof  began  to  think 

over  all  that  they  had  said.     When  he  remembered 

that  his  wife  had  also  distrusted  him,  and  had  asked 

him  if  he  had  murdered  the  merchant,  he  said  to 

5  Diminutive  of  Ivan,  John. 


142  COUNT  LEO  TOLSTOI 

himself:  "It  is  evident  that  no  one  but  God  can 
know  the  truth  of  the  matter,  and  He  is  the  only 
one  to  ask  for  mercy,  and  He  is  the  only  one  from 
whom  to  expect  it." 

And  from  that  time  Aksenof  ceased  to  send  in  peti- 
tions, ceased  to  hope,  and  only  prayed  to  God.  Akse- 
nof was  sentenced  to  be  knouted,  and  then  to  exile 
with  hard  labor. 

And  so  it  was  done. 

He  was  flogged  with  the  knout,  and  then,  when  the 
wounds  from  the  knout  were  healed,  he  was  sent  with 
other  exiles  to  Siberia. 

Aksenof  lived  twenty-six  years  in  the  mines.  The 
hair  on  his  head  had  become  white  as  snow,  and  his 
beard  had  grown  long,  thin,  and  gray.  All  his  gaiety 
had  vanished. 

He  was  bent,  his  gait  was  slow,  he  spoke  little, 
he  never  laughed,  and  he  spent  much  of  his  time 
in  prayer. 

Aksenof  had  learned  while  in  prison  to  make  boots, 
and  with  the  money  that  he  earned  he  bought  the 
"Book  of  Martyrs,"  6  and  used  to  read  it  when  it 
was  light  enough  in  prison,  and  on  holidays  he 
would  go  to  the  prison  church,  read  the  Gospels,  and 
sing  in  the  choir,  for  his  voice  was  still  strong 
and  good. 

The  authorities  liked  Aksenof  for  his  submissive- 
ness,  and  his  prison  associates  respected  him  and  called 
him  "Grandfather"  and  the  "man  of  God."  When- 
ever they  had  petitions  to  be  presented,  Aksenof  was 

"Chetya  Minyei. 


THE  LONG  EXILE  143 

always  chosen  to  carry  them  to  the  authorities;  and 
when  quarrels  arose  among  the  prisoners,  they  always 
came  to  Aksenof  as  umpire. 

Aksenof  never  received  any  letters  from  home,  and 
he  knew  not  whether  his  wife  and  children  were 
alive. 

One  time  some  new  convicts  came  to  the  prison.  In 
the  evening  all  the  old  convicts  gathered  around  the 
newcomers,  and  began  to  ply  them  with  questions  as 
to  the  cities  or  villages  from  which  this  one  or  that 
had  come,  and  what  their  crimes  were. 

At  this  time  Aksenof  was  sitting  on  his  bunk,  near 
the  strangers,  and,  with  bowed  head,  was  listening  to 
what  was  said. 

One  of  the  new  convicts  was  a  tall,  healthy  looking 
old  man  of  sixty  years,  with  a  close-cropped  gray 
beard.  He  was  telling  why  he  had  been  arrested. 
He  said : 

"And  so,  brothers,  I  was  sent  here  for  nothing.  I 
unharnessed  a  horse  from  a  postboy's  sledge,  and  they 
caught  me  in  it,  and  insisted  that  I  was  stealing  it. 
'But/  says  I,  'I  only  wanted  to  go  a  little  faster,  so 
I  whipped  up  the  horse.  And  besides,  the  driver  was 
a  friend  of  mine.  It's  all  right/  says  I.  'No/  say 
they;  'you  were  stealing  it/  But  they  did  not  know 
what  and  where  I  had  stolen.  I  have  done  things 
which  long  ago  would  have  sent  me  here,  but  I  was 
not  found  out;  and  now  they  have  sent  me  here  with- 
out any  justice  in  it.  But  what's  the  use  of  grumbling  ? 
I  have  been  in  Siberia  before.  They  did  not  keep  me 
here  very  long  though — " 


144  COUNT  LEO  TOLSTOI 

"Where  did  you  come  from?"  asked  one  of  the 
convicts. 

"Well,  we  came  from  the  city  of  Vladimir ;  we  are 
citizens  of  that  place.  My  name  is  Makar,  and  my 
father's  name  was  Semyon." 

Aksenof  raised  his  head  and  asked : 

"Tell  me,  Semyonitch,7  have  you  ever  heard  of 
the  Aksenof s,  merchants  in  Vladimir  city?  Are  they 
alive?" 

"Indeed,  I  have  heard  of  them!  They  are  rich 
merchants,  though  their  father  is  in  Siberia.  It 
seems  he  was  just  like  any  of  the  rest  of  us  sinners. 
And  now  tell  me,  Grandfather,  what  you  were  sent 
here  for?" 

Aksenof  did  not  like  to  speak  of  his  misfortune;  He 
sighed,  and  said : 

"Twenty-six  years  ago  I  was  condemned  to  hard 
labor  on  account  of  my  sins." 

Makar  Semyonof  said: 

"But  what  was  your  crime?" 

Aksenof  replied :  "I  must,  therefore,  have  deserved 
this." 

But  he  would  not  tell  or  give  any  further  particu- 
lars ;  the  other  convicts,  however,  related  why  Aksenof 
had  been  sent  to  Siberia.  They  told  how  on  the  road 
some  one  had  killed  a  merchant,  and  put  the  knife 
into  Aksenof  s  luggage,  and  how  he  had  been  unjustly 
punished  for  this. 

When  Makar  heard  this,  he  glanced  at  Aksenof, 
clasped  his  hands  round  his  knees,  and  said : 

7  Son  of  Semyon. 


THE  LONG  EXILE  145 

"Well,  now,  that's  wonderful!  You  Have  been 
growing  old,  Grandfather!" 

They  began  to  ask  him  what  he  thought  was  won- 
derful, and  where  he  had  seen  Aksenof.  But  Makar 
did  not  answer ;  he  only  repeated : 

"A  miracle,  boys!  how  wonderful  that  we  should 
meet  again !" 

And  when  he  said  these  words,  it  came  over  Aksenof 
that  perhaps  this  man  might  know  who  it  was  that  had 
killed  the  merchant.  And  he  said : 

"Did  you  ever  hear  of  that  crime,  Semyonitch,  or 
did  you  ever  see  me  before?" 

"Of  course  I  heard  of  it !  The  country  was  full  of 
it.  But  it  happened  a  long  time  ago.  And  I  have 
forgotten  what  I  heard,"  said  Makar. 

"Perhaps  you  heard  who  killed  the  merchant?" 
asked  Aksenof. 

Makar  laughed,  and  said: 

"Why,  of  course  the  man  who  had  the  knife  in  his 
bag  killed  him.  If  any  one  put  the  knife  in  your  things 
and  was  not  caught  doing  it — it  would  have  been  im- 
possible. For  how  could  they  have  put  the  knife  in 
your  bag?  Was  it  not  standing  close  by  your  head? 
And  you  would  have  heard  it,  wouldn't  you?" 

As  soon  as  Aksenof  heard  these  words  he  felt  con- 
vinced that  this  was  the  very  man  who  had  killed  the 
merchant. 

He  stood  up  and  walked  away.  All  that  night  he 
was  unable  to  sleep.  Deep  melancholy  came  upon  him, 
and  he  began  to  call  back  the  past  in  his  imagination. 

He  imagined  his  wife  as  she  had  been  when  for  the 


146  COUNT  LEO  TOLSTOI 

last  time  she  had  come  to  see  him  in  the  prison.  She 
seemed  to  stand  before  him  exactly  as  though  she  were 
alive,  and  he  saw  her  face  and  her  eyes,  and  he  seemed 
to  hear  her  words  and  her  laugh. 

Then  his  imagination  brought  up  his  children  before 
him ;  one  a  little  boy  in  a  little  fur  coat,  and  the  other 
on  his  mother's  breast. 

And  he  imagined  himself  as  he  was  at  that  time, 
young  and  happy.  He  remembered  how  he  had  sat 
on  the  steps  of  the  tavern  when  they  arrested  him,  and 
how  his  soul  was  full  of  joy  as  he  played  on  his  guitar. 

And  he  remembered  the  place  of  execution  where 
they  had  knouted  him,  and  the  knoutsman,  and  the 
people  standing  around,  and  the  chains  and  the  con- 
victs, and  all  his  twenty-six  years  of  prison  life,  and 
he  remembered  his  old  age.  And  such  melancholy 
came  upon  Aksenof  that  he  was  tempted  to  put  an 
end  to  himself. 

"And  all  on  account  of  this  criminal !"  said  Aksenof 
to  himself. 

And  then  he  began  to  feel  such  anger  against  Makar 
Semyonof  that  he  almost  fell  upon  him,  and  was  crazy 
with  desire  to  pay  off  the  load  of  vengeance.  He  re- 
peated prayers  all  night,  but  could  not  recover  his  calm. 
When  day  came  he  walked  by  Makar  and  did  not  look 
at  him. 

Thus  passed  two  weeks.  Aksenof  was  not  able  to 
sleep,  and  such  melancholy  had  come  over  him  that  he 
did  not  know  what  to  do. 

One  time  during  the  night,  as  he  happened  to  be 
passing  through  the  prison,  he  saw  that  the  soil  was 


. 
THE  LONG  EXILE  147 

disturbed  under  one  of  the  bunks.  He  stopped  to  ex- 
amine it.  Suddenly  Makar  crept  from  under  the  bunk 
and  looked  at  Aksenof  with  a  startled  face. 

Aksenof  was  about  to  pass  on  so  as  not  to  see  him, 
but  Makar  seized  his  arm,  and  told  him  how  he  had 
been  digging  a  passage  under  the  wall,  and  how 
every  day  he  carried  the  dirt  out  in  his  boot-legs 
and  emptied  it  in  the  street  .when  they  went  out  to 
work.  He  said : 

"If  you  only  keep  quiet,  old  man,  I  will  get  you  out 
too.  But  if  you  tell  on  me,  they  will  flog  me;  but 
afterward  I  will  make  it  hot  for  you.  I  will  kill 
you." 

When  Aksenof  saw  his  enemy,  He  trembled  all  over 
with  rage,  twitched  away  his  arm,  and  said:  "I  have 
no  reason  to  make  my  escape,  and  to  kill  me  would 
do  no  harm;  you  killed  me  long  ago.  But  as  to 
telling  on  you  or  not,  I  shall  do  as  God  sees  fit  to 
have  me." 

On  the  next  day,  when  they  tooE  tEe  convicts  out  to 
work,  the  soldiers  discovered  where  Makar  had  been 
digging  in  the  ground;  they  began  to  make  a  search, 
and  found  the  hole.  The  chief  came  into  the  prison 
and  asked  every  one,  "Who  was  digging  that  hole?" 

All  denied  it.  Those  who  knew  did  not  name 
Makar,  because  they  were  aware  that  he  would  be 
flogged  half  to  death  for  such  an  attempt. 

Then  the  chief  came  to  Aksenof.  He  knew  that 
Aksenof  was  a  truthful  man,  and  he  said:  "Old 
man,  you  are  truthful;  tell  me  before  God  who 
did  this." 


148  COUNT  LEO  TOLSTOI 

Makar  was  standing  near,  in  great  excitement,  and 
did  not  dare  to  look  at  Aksenof. 

Aksenof  s  hands  and  lips  trembled,  and  it  was  some 
time  before  he  could  speak  a  word.  He  said  to  him- 
self: "If  I  shield  him —  But  why  should  I  forgive 
him  when  he  has  been  my  ruin?  Let  him  suffer  for 
my  sufferings!  But  shall  I  tell  on  him?  They  will 
surely  flog  him?  But  what  difference  does  it  make 
what  I  think  of  him?  Will  it  be  any  the  easier 
for  me?" 

Once  more  the  chief  demanded: 

"Well,  old  man,  tell  the  truth!  Who  dug  the 
hole?" 

Aksenof  glanced  at  Makar,  and  then  said : 

"I  can  not  tell,  your  Honor.  God  does  not  bid  me 
tell.  I  will  not  tell.  Do  with  me  as  you  please ;  I  am 
in  your  power." 

In  spite  of  all  the  chief's  efforts,  Aksenof  would  say 
nothing  more.  And  so  they  failed  to  find  out  who  dug 
the  hole. 

On  the  next  night  as  Aksenof  was  lying  on  his  bunk, 
and  almost  asleep,  he  heard  some  one  come  along  and 
sit  down  at  his  feet. 

He  peered  through  the  darkness  and  saw  that  it  was 
Makar. 

Aksenof  asked: 

"What  do  you  wish  of  me?  What  are  you  doing 
here?" 

Makar  remained  silent.    Aksenof  arose,  and  said : 

"What  do  you  want?  Go  away,  or  else  I  will  call 
the  guard." 


THE  LONG  EXILE  149 

Makar  went  up  close  to  Aksenof,  and  said  in  a 
whisper : 

"Ivan  Dmitritch,8  forgive  me !" 

Aksenof  said :  "What  have  I  to  forgive  you  ?" 

"It  was  I  who  killed  the  merchant  and  put  the  knife 
in  your  bag.  And  I  was  going  to  kill  you  too,  but 
there  was  a  noise  in  the  yard ;  I  thrust  the  knife  in  your 
bag,  and  slipped  out  of  the  window." 

Aksenof  said  nothing,  and  he  did  not  know  what 
to  say.  Makar  got  down  from  the  bunk,  knelt  on  the 
ground,  and  said: 

"Ivan  Dmitritch,  forgive  me,  forgive  me  for  Christ's 
sake.  I  will  confess  that  I  killed  the  merchant — they 
will  pardon  you.  You  will  be  able  to  go  home." 
[Aksenof  said: 

"It  is  easy  for  you  to  say  that,  but  how  could  I 
endure  it?  Where  should  I  go  now?  My  wife  is 
dead !  my  children  have  forgotten  me.  I  have  nowhere 
to  go." 

Makar  did  not  rise;  he  beat  his  head  on  the  ground, 
and  said: 

"Ivan  Dmitritch,  forgive  me!  When  they  flogged 
me  with  the  knout,  it  was  easier  to  bear  than  it  is  now 
to  look  at  you.  And  you  had  pity  on  me  after  all 
this — you  did  not  tell  on  me.  Forgive  me  for 
Christ's  sake!  Forgive  me  though  I  am  a  cursed 
villain!" 

And  the  man  began  to  sob. 

When  Aksenof  heard  Makar  Semyonof  sobbing, 
he  himself  burst  into  tears,  and  said: 

8  Son  of  Dmitry  (or  Dmitrievitch ;  see  page  137)- 


160  THE  LONG  EXILE 

"God  will  forgive  you ;  maybe  I  am  a  hundred  times 
worse  than  you  are !" 

And  suddenly  he  felt  a  wonderful  peace  in  his  soul. 
And  he  ceased  to  mourn  for  his  home,  and  had  no 
desire  to  leave  the  prison,  but  only  thought  of  his  last 
hour. 

Makar  would  not  listen  to  Aksenof,  and  confessed 
his  crime. 

When  they  came  to  let  Aksenof  go  home,  he  was 
dead. 


v  :•:-:••  v 


•**;«**• 


TOM*  «ni  •  «§»  «nf  *•*»  «**•*  fi**  *tf 
DWV  tawMt  ««w»jw»*  fe  Hit  «m*  <f  jit 

ynuilgyp  4MMK»          -'  '  •  -"       '  '•  f'  /'...'•>• 

:  i      /  .  /          •  /-  '     ........  .       '         ...-;. 


'     *'         /(*4f  ftf*r 


JIM 


-../• 


EASTER    NIGHT 

BY    VLADIMIR    KOROLfiNKO 

IT  was  Holy  Saturday  in  188-. 
Evening  had  long   since  enfolded  the  silent 
earth.    The  ground,  warmed  during  the  day  by 
the  rays  of  the  sun,  was  now  cooling  beneath  the  in- 
vigorating influence  of  the  night-frost.    It  seemed  like 
one  sighing,  while  its  breath,  forming  a  silvery  mist, 
rose  glistening  in  the  rays  of  the  starlit  sky,  like  clouds 
of  incense,  to  greet  the  approaching  holiday. 

All  was  still.     In  the  cool  night-breeze  the  small 

provincial  town  of  N stood  silent,  waiting  to  hear 

the  first  stroke  of  the  bell  from  the  high  cathedral 
tower.  But  the  town  was  not  sleeping;  a  spirit  of 
expectancy  brooded  beneath  the  veil  of  darkness, 
breathing  through  the  shadows  of  the  silent  and  de- 
serted streets.  Now  and  then  a  belated  workman,  who 
had  but  just  escaped  from  his  servile  task  ere  the  holi- 
day began,  passed,  hurrying  on  his  way;  once  in  a 
while  a  droshky  rattled  by,  leaving  silence  behind  it. 
Life  had  fled  indoors  and  hidden  itself,  in  palace  and 
hovel,  from  whose  windows  the  lights  shone  far  out 
upon  the  street,  while  over  the  city  and  the  fields 
hovered  the  spirit  of  Resurrection. 

Although  the  moon  stood  high  above  the  horizon, 
the  town  still  rested  in  the  broad,  deep  shadow  of  a 

Translated  by  Mrs.  Aline  Delano.   Copyright,  1887,  by  Thomas  Y.  Crowd!  &  Co. 

(153) 


154  VLADIMIR  KOROLfiNKO 

hill,  crowned  by  a  gloomy  and  massive  edifice,  whose 
peculiarly  straight  and  severe  outlines  were  sharply 
defined  in  the  golden  ether.  The  sombre  gates  were 
hardly  to  be  distinguished  amid  the  gloom  of  its  deeply 
shadowed  walls,  while  the  towers  on  the  four  corners 
stood  out  boldly  against  the  azure  sky,  and  gradually 
over  all  the  moon  poured  its  flood  of  liquid  gold. 

Suddenly  on  the  sensitive  air  of  the  expectant  night 
came  the  first  stroke  from  the  high  cathedral  belfry; 
then  another,  and  still  another.  A  minute  later  and 
the  whole  air  throbbed  and  swelled,  as  the  countless 
bells  rang  out,  uniting  in  one  harmonious  peal.  From 
the  gloomy  building  overshadowing  the  town  there 
came  a  faint,  broken  harmony,  that  seemed  to  flutter 
helplessly  in  the  air,  and  thence  to  rise  into  the  ethereal 
light,  and  join  the  mighty  chord.  The  singing  ceased, 
the  sounds  dissolved  in  air,  and  the  silence  of  the  night 
gradually  resumed  its  sway;  a  faint  echo  seemed  to 
hover  for  a  while,  like  the  vibration  of  an  invisible 
harp-string.  Now  the  fires  were  gradually  extin- 
guished, the  church  windows  shone  forth  brightly, 
and  the  earth  seemed  ready  to  proclaim  once  more 
the  old  tidings  of  peace,  love,  and  good-will. 

The  bolts  of  the  dark  gates  in  the  gloomy  building 
creaked,  and  a  band  of  soldiers,  with  clanking  arms, 
sallied  forth  to  relieve  the  night  sentinels ;  on  approach- 
ing the  corners,  they  would  halt,  and  a  dark  form, 
with  measured  steps,  would  detach  itself  from  the  rest, 
while  the  former  sentinel  took  his  place  in  the  ranks, 
and  the  soldiers  went  on  their  way,  skirting  the  high 
prison  wall,  that  glistened  in  the  moonbeams. 


EASTER  NIGHT  155 

As  they  reached  its  western  side,  a  young  recruit 
stepped  forward  from  the  ranks  to  relieve  the  sentry 
who  was  posted  there;  a  rustic  awkwardness  still 
showed  itself  in  his  movements,  and  his  young  face 
betrayed  the  absorbed  attention  of  a  novice  who  was 
to  occupy  for  the  first  time  a  responsible  post.  He 
faced  the  wall,  presented  arms,  made  two  steps  for- 
ward, and,  shouldering  his  musket,  stood  beside  the 
sentry  he  was  to  replace.  The  latter,  turning  slightly 
toward  him,  repeated  the  usual  formula,  in  the  sing- 
song tone  of  discipline. 

"From  corner  to  corner —  Look  out !  Do  not  sleep 
or  doze !"  He  spoke  rapidly,  while  the  recruit  listened 
with  close  attention,  and  a  peculiar  expression  of  anx- 
iety and  sadness  in  his  gray  eyes. 

"You  understand?"  asked  his  superior. 

"Yes,  sir!" 

"Then,  look  out !"  he  added,  sharply ;  but,  suddenly 
changing  his  tone,  he  said,  good-naturedly : 

"Don't  be  afraid,  Faddeyef ;  you  are  not  a  woman! 
I  hope  you  are  not  afraid  of  the  Lyeshy !" 

"Why  should  I  be  afraid  of  him?"  replied  Faddeyef. 
Then  he  added:  "But  I  tell  you,  my  good  fellows,  I 
have  a  misgiving." 

This  simple  and  almost  childish  confession  made  the 
soldiers  laugh. 

"There's  simplicity  for  you!"  exclaimed  the  leader, 
in  tones  of  contempt.  Then  giving  the  order,  "Shoul- 
der arms !  March !"  the  sentries,  with  measured  tread, 
disappeared  around  the  corner,  and  the  sound  of  their 
footsteps  was  soon  lost  in  the  distance.  The  sentinel 


166  iVLADIMIR  KOROLfiNKO 

shouldered  his  musket,  and  began  to  pace  along  the 
wall. 

Inside  the  prison,  at  the  first  stroke  of  the  bell,  all 
was  in  motion.  It  was  long  since  the  sad  and  gloomy 
prison  night  had  witnessed  so  much  life.  It  seemed 
as  if  the  church  bells  had  really  brought  tidings  of 
liberty;  for  the  grimy  doors  of  the  cells  opened  in  turn, 
and  their  occupants,  clad  in  long  gray  garments,  the 
fatal  patches  on  their  backs,  filed  in  rows  along  the 
corridors,  on  their  way  to  the  brilliantly  lighted 
prison  church.  They  came  from  all  directions — from 
right  and  left,  descending  and  ascending  the  stairway 
— and  amid  the  echoing  footsteps  rang  the  sound  of 
arms  and  the  clanking  of  chains.  On  entering  the 
church,  this  gray  mass  of  humanity  poured  into  the 
space  allotted  to  them,  behind  the  railing,  and  stood 
there  in  silence.  The  windows  of  the  church  were 
protected  by  strong  iron  bars. 

The  prison  was  empty,  except  in  the  four  towers, 
where,  in  small,  strongly  bolted  cells,  four  men,  in  soli- 
tary confinement,  were  restlessly  pacing  to  and  fro, 
stopping  once  in  a  while  to  listen  at  the  keyhole  to  the 
snatches  of  church  singing  that  reached  their  ears. 

And,  beside  these,  in  one  of  the  ordinary  cells,  in 
a  bunk,  lay  a  sick  man.  The  overseer,  to  whom  this 
sudden  illness  had  been  reported,  went  into  his  cell  as 
they  were  escorting  the  prisoners  to  church,  and, 
leaning  over  him,  looked  into  his  eyes,  that  were  gaz- 
ing fixedly  before  him,  and  in  which  shone  a  peculiar 
light. 

"Ivanof !    Ivanof !"  he  called  out  to  the  invalid. 


EASTER  NIGHT  157 

The  convict  never  turned  his  head,  but  continued 
muttering  something  unintelligible,  moving  his  parched 
lips  with  difficulty. 

"Carry  him  to  the  hospital  to-morrow!"  said  the 
overseer,  as  he  left  the  cell,  appointing  a  sentry  to 
guard  the  door.  The  latter,  after  a  close  examination 
of  the  delirious  patient,  shook  his  head,  saying  as  he 
did  so :  "A  vagrant !  Poor  fellow !  you  are  not  likely 
to  tramp  any  more !"  The  overseer  continued  his  way 
along  the  corridor,  and  entered  the  church,  taking  up 
his  post  by  the  door,  where,  with  frequent  genuflec- 
tions, he  listened  devoutly  to  the  service.  Meanwhile 
the  mutterings  of  the  unconscious  man  filled  the  empty 
cell. 

He  did  not  seem  old;  on  the  contrary,  he  looked 
strong  and  muscular.  He  was  delirious,  apparently 
reliving  his  recent  past,  while  a  look  of  distress  dis- 
figured his  face.  Fate  had  played  him  a  sorry  trick. 
He  had  tramped  thousands  of  versts  through  the  Si- 
berian forests  and  mountains,  had  suffered  countless 
dangers  and  privations,  always  urged  onward  by  a 
consuming  homesickness,  and  sustained  by  one  hope 
— that  he  might  live  to  see  his  native  place,  and  be 
once  more  with  his  own  people,  if  it  were  but  for  a 
month,  or  even  a  week.  Then  he  would  be  resigned, 
even  if  he  had  to  go  back  again.  But  it  chanced 
that  when  only  a  few  hundred  versts  from  his  native 
village  he  had  been  recaptured,  and  confined  in 
this  prison.  Suddenly  his  mutterings  ceased.  His 
eyes  dilated,  and  his  breathing  became  more  even — 
Brighter  dreams  flitted  across  his  fevered  brain —  The 


158  VLADIMIR  KOROLENKO 

forest  soughs —  He  knows  it  well,  that  soughing; 
monotonous,  musical,  and  powerful —  He  can  dis- 
tinguish its  various  tones;  the  language  of  each  tree: 
the  majestic  pine,  dusky  green,  rustling  high  overhead 
— the  whispering  cedars — the  bright,  merry  birch,  toss- 
ing its  flexible  branches — the  trembling  aspen,  flutter- 
ing its  timid,  sensitive  leaves —  The  free  birds  sing; 
the  stream  rushes  across  the  stony  chasm;  and  a 
swarm  of  gibbering  magpies,  detectives  of  the  forest, 
are  soaring  in  the  air  over  the  path  followed  by  the 
vagrant  through  this  almost  impenetrable  thicket. 

It  seemed  as  if  a  breeze  from  the  free  forest  were 
wafted  through  the  prison  cell.  The  invalid  sat  up 
and  drew  a  long  breath,  gazing  intently  before  him, 
while  a  sudden  gleam  of  consciousness  flashed  into  his 
eyes —  The  vagrant,  the  habitual  fugitive,  beheld  be- 
fore him  an  unaccustomed  sight — an  open  door? 

In  his  frame,  enfeebled  by  disease,  a  powerful  in- 
stinct sprang  to  life.  His  delirium  either  disappeared, 
or  centred  itself  on  one  idea,  which,  like  a  ray  of  sun- 
light, illumined  the  chaos  of  his  thoughts.  Alone !  and 
with  an  open  door !  In  a  moment  he  was  on  his  feet. 
It  seemed  as  if  the  fever  had  left  his  brain,  and  was 
only  perceptible  in  his  eyes,  which  had  a  fixed  and 
menacing  expression. 

Some  one  had  just  come  out  from  the  church,  leav- 
ing the  door  ajar. 

The  strains  of  the  harmonious  singing,  subdued  by 
the  distance,  reached  the  ear  of  the  vagrant,  and  then 
died  away.  His  face  softened,  his  eyes  grew  dim,  and 
his  imagination  reproduced  a  long  cherished  scene: 


EASTER   NIGHT  159 

A  mild  night,  the  whisper  of  the  pines,  their  branches 
swaying  above  the  old  church  of  his  native  village — a 
throng  of  countrymen ;  the  lights  reflected  in  the  river, 
and  this  same  chant —  He  must  make  haste  with  his 
journey,  that  he  may  hear  this  at  home,  with  his 
family ! 

All  this  time,  in  the  corridor,  near  the  church  door,' 
the  overseer  prayed  devoutly,  kneeling,  and  touching 
his  forehead  to  the  ground. 

Meanwhile,  the  young  recruit  paced  to  and  fro  on 
his  beat  along  the  prison  wall,  which  glowed  with  a 
phosphorescent  light.  A  broad,  level  field,  recently 
freed  from  snow,  lay  before  him. 

A  light  wind  rustled  through  the  tall  grass,  inclin- 
ing him  to  a  sad  and  pensive  mood. 

The  moon  hung  high  above  the  horizon;  the  ex- 
pression of  anxiety  had  vanished  from  Faddeyefs 
face.  He  stopped  by  the  wall,  and,  setting  his  musket 
on  the  ground,  rested  his  hand  on  the  muzzle,  on  which 
he  leaned  his  head,  falling  into  a  deep  reverie.  He  could 
not  yet  wholly  grasp  the  idea  of  his  presence  in  this 
place,  on  this  solemn  Easter  night,  beside  the  wall,  with 
a  musket  in  his  hand,  and  opposite  the  vacant  field. 
He  had  by  no  means  ceased  to  be  a  peasant;  many 
things  clear  to  a  soldier  were  to  him  incomprehen- 
sible; and  he  was  often  teased  by  being  called  "a 
rustic."  But  a  short  time  ago  he  was  a  free  man,  had 
the  care  of  a  household,  owned  a  field,  and  was  at  lib- 
erty to  labor  when  and  where  he  pleased.  Now,  an 
indefinite,  inexplicable  fear  beset  his  every  step  and 
movement,  forcing  the  awkward  young  rustic  into  the 
8— VOL.  i 


160  VLADIMIR   KOROLfiNKO 

groove  of  strict  discipline.  At  this  moment  he  was 
alone — the  bleak  landscape  before  him,  and  the  wind, 
whistling  through  the  dry  grass,  made  him  dreamy; 
and  memories  of  familiar  scenes  passed  through  his 
mind.  He  seemed  to  see  his  native  village!  The 
same  moon  shone  above  it,  the  same  breeze  blew  over 
it;  he  saw  the  lighted  church,  and  the  dark  pines 
tossing  their  green  heads — 

Suddenly  he  became  conscious  of  his  present  sur- 
roundings, and  surprise  kindled  his  blue  eyes,  as  though 
he  were  questioning,  "What  are  these?  this  field,  this 
wall,  and  musket?"  For  an  instant  he  realized  where 
he  was,  but  in  another  moment  the  whistling  breeze 
wafted  him  back  to  familiar  scenes;  and  again  the 
soldier  dreamt,  leaning  on  his  musket. 

All  at  once,  close  beside  him,  appeared  a  head  over 
the  top  of  the  wall — the  eyes  glimmering  like  two  coals. 
The  vagrant  peered  into  the  open  field,  and  beyond  it 
to  the  shadowy  line  of  the  distant  forest — his  chest 
expanded  as  he  greedily  inhaled  the  refreshing  breath 
of  "mother  night."  He  let  himself  down  by  his  hands, 
gently  gliding  along  the  wall. 

The  joyful  ringing  had  awakened  the  slumbering 
night.  The  door  of  the  prison  church  was  opened,  and 
the  procession  moved  into  the  yard.  In  waves  of  mel- 
ody the  singing  poured  forth  from  the  church.  The 
soldier  started,  lifted  his  cap,  and  was  about  to  make 
the  sign  of  the  cross,  when  he  suddenly  stopped,  with 
his  hand  raised  in  the  act  of  prayer,  while  the  vagrant, 
having  reached  the  ground,  swiftly  started  on  a  run 
toward  the  tall  grass. 


EASTER   NIGHT  161 

"Stop,  pray,  stop,  my  dearest  fellow !"  exclaimed  the 
soldier,  in  a  terrified  voice,  as  he  raised  his  musket. 
At  the  sight  of  this  gray  figure  fleeing  from  pursuit, 
all  his  shapeless  and  terrible  fears  took  a  definite  form. 
"Duty — responsibility!"  flashed  across  his  mind,  and, 
raising  his  musket,  he  aimed  at  the  fugitive.  But  be- 
fore pulling  the  trigger  he  pitifully  shut  his  eyes. 

Meanwhile,  above  the  town  there  rose,  hovering  in 
the  ether,  a  harmonious  and  prolonged  chime,  marred 
only  by  the  prison  bell,  that  trembled  and  fluttered  like 
a  wounded  bird ;  and  from  beyond  the  wall  the  sounds 
of  the  joyous  chant,  "Christ  is  risen/'  reached  far 
into  the  field.  Suddenly,  above  all  other  sounds,  came 
the  report  of  a  musket,  followed  by  a  faint,  helpless 
groan,  like  a  plaintive  and  dying  protest.  Then  for  a 
moment  all  was  still;  and  only  the  distant  echoes  of 
the  vacant  field  repeated  with  a  sad  murmur  the  last 
reverberation  of  the  shot  amid  the  silence  of  the 
terror-stricken  night. 


THE   SIGNAL 


BY    VSEVOLOD    MIKAILOVITCH    GARSHIN 


Garshin,  who  may  be  said,  for  purposes  of 
comparison,  to  belong  to  the  school  of  Dos- 
toievski,  was  all  his  life  subject  to  attacks  of 
melancholia.  Despite  the  careful  nursing  of 
his  wife,  who  was  a  physician,  he  threw  him- 
self over  the  stairs  of  his  house  in  St.  Peters- 
burg in  1888,  and  died  from  the  effects.  His 
first  important  story,  "Four  Days,"  appeared 
in  1876,  and  was  the  outcome  of  his  experi- 
ences in  the  Servian  and  Turkish  Wars.  It 
is  a  powerful  but  gruesome  Verestchagin-like 
study  of  the  horrors  of  war,  and  reminds  one 
of  Stephen  Crane's  "Red  Badge  of  Courage." 
In  1883  he  was  appointed  Secretary  to  the 
Congress  of  Russian  Railroads,  and  it  was 
probably  at  that  time  that  he  gained  the  ex- 
perience which  led  to  the  writing  of  "The 
Signal." 


THE    SIGNAL 

BY    VSEVOLOD    GARSHIN 

SEMEN  IVANOV  served  as  trackman  on  the 
railroad.  His  watch-house  was  twelve  versts 
(nearly  eight  miles)  distant  from  one  station 
and  ten  from  the  other.  The  year  before  a  large 
weaving  mill  had  been  established  about  four  versts 
away;  and  its  tall  chimneys  looked  black  from  behind 
the  trees  of  the  wood ;  and  nearer  than  this,  apart  from 
the  other  watch-houses,  there  was  no  human  habitation. 
Semen  Ivanov  was  a  sickly,  broken-down  man.  Nine 
years  before  he  had  gone  to  the  war :  he  served  as  or- 
derly to  an  officer  and  had  remained  with  him  during 
the  whole  campaign.  !He  starved  and  froze,  and  baked 
in  the  hot  sun,  and  marched  from  forty  to  fifty  versts 
in  the  frost  or  in  the  burning  heat.  It  also  happened 
that  he  was  often  under  fire,  but,  thank  God,  no  bullet 
ever  touched  him. 

Once  his  regiment  was  in  the  first  line;  for  a  whole 
week  the  firing  was  kept  up  constantly  on  both  sides : 
the  Russian  line  on  this  side  of  the  hollow  and  the 
Turkish  lines  just  across,  and  from  morning  till 
night  the  firing  was  going  on.  Semen's  officer  was 
also  in  the  front  lines,  and  three  times  a  day,  from 
the  regiment  kitchens  in  the  hollow,  Semen  carried 
the  hot  samovar  and  the  food.  Semen  walked  through 

Translated  by  Lizzie  B.  Gorin.    Copyright,  1907,  by  P.  F.  Collier  &  Son. 

(165) 


166  VSEVOLOT)  GARSHIN 

the  open  space  while  the  bullets  whistled  over  his  head 
and  cracked  the  stones.  Semen  was  afraid,  but  he  went 
on — wept,  and  went  on.  The  officers  were  very  much 
satisfied  with  Semen's  services :  the  officers  always  had 
their  hot  tea. 

Semen  returned  from  the  war  without  a  wound,  but 
with  a  rheumatic  pain  in  his  legs  and  arms.  And  he 
had  suffered  a  good  deal  of  sorrow  since  that  time. 
His  old  father  died  soon  after  his  return,  then  his 
little  son — a  boy  of  four — also  died  from  some  throat 
trouble;  and  Semen  was  left  alone  in  the  world  with 
his  wife. 

Their  work  on  the  little  piece  of  land  allotted  to 
them  also  proved  unsuccessful,  it  being  too  hard  for 
a  man  to  till  the  soil  with  swollen  arms  and  legs.  And 
so  they  could  not  get  along  in  their  native  village,  and 
decided  to  go  into  new  places  in  search  of  better  luck. 
Semen  lived  with  his  wife  on  the  Done  for  some  time, 
and  in  the  Government  of  Cherson ;  but  they  somehow 
could  not  get  along  very  well  anywhere.  At  last  his 
wife  went  into  service,  and  Semen  continued  his  roving 
life  as  heretofore. 

Once  he  happened  to  go  by  rail,  and  on  one  station 
he  noticed  the  station-master,  who  seemed  rather  fa- 
miliar to  him.  Semen  looked  at  him  intently,  and  the 
station-master  also  peered  into  Semen's  face.  They 
recognized  each  other:  it  was  an  officer  of  his  regi- 
ment. "Is  it  you,  Ivanov?"  said  the  man. 

"Yes,  your  honor,  my  very  self." 

"How  did  you  get  here?"  And  so  Semen  told  him : 
such  and  such  were  the  circumstances. 


THE   SIGNAL  167 

"Well,  where  are  you  going  now?" 

"I  can  not  say,  your  honor." 

"How  is  that,  you  fool,  you  can  not  say?" 

"Just  so,  your  honor,  because  I  have  nowhere  to  go 
to.  I  must  look  for  some  kind  of  employment,  your 
honor." 

And  the  station-master  looked  at  him  for  a  mo- 
ment and  fell  to  thinking,  then  he  said  to  him :  "Well, 
brother,  stay  here  on  the  station  in  the  mean  time.  But 
it  seems  to  me  that  you  are  a  married  man?  Where  is 
your  wife?" 

"Yes,  sir,  I  am  married ;  my  wife  is  serving  at  the 
house  of  a  merchant  at  Kursk." 

"Well,  then,  write  to  your  wife  to  come  here.  I 
shall  get  a  free  ticket  for  her.  We  will  soon  have  a 
vacant  watch-house  here,  and  I  will  ask  the  division- 
master  to  give  you  the  place." 

"Many  thanks,  your  honor,"  replied  Semen. 

And  so  he  remained  on  the  station,  helping  in  the 
station-master's  kitchen,  cutting  wood,  sweeping  the 
courtyard  and  the  railway  platform.  In  two  weeks 
his  wife  arrived,  and  Semen  went  on  a  hand-car  to 
his  new  home. 

The  watch-house  was  new  and  warm,  wood  he  had 
in  plenty,  the  former  watchman  left  a  small  garden, 
and  there  was  a  little  less  than  one  and  a  half  acres 
of  arable  land  on  the  two  sides  of  the  railroad-bed. 
Semen  was  overjoyed:  he  began  to  dream  of  a  little 
homestead  of  his  own,  and  of  buying  a  horse  and 
a  cow. 

He  was  given  all  the  necessary  supplies:  a  green 


168  VSEVOLOD   GARSHIN 

flag,  a  red  flag,  lanterns,  a  signal-pipe,  a  hammer, 
a  rail-key  for  tightening  the  screw-nuts,  a  crowbar, 
shovel,  brooms,  clinch-nails,  bolts,  and  two  books  with 
the  rules  and  regulations  of  the  railroad.  At  first 
Semen  did  not  sleep  at  night,  for  he  continually  re- 
peated the  regulations.  If  the  train  was  due  in  two 
hours,  he  had  already  gone  his  rounds,  and  would  sit 
on  the  little  bench  at  the  watch-house  and  look  and 
listen :  were  not  the  rails  trembling,  was  there  no  noise 
of  an  approaching  train  ? 

At  last  he  learned  by  heart  all  the  rules;  though  he 
read  with  difficulty  and  had  to  spell  out  each  word, 
nevertheless  he  did  learn  them  by  heart. 

This  happened  in  summer :  the  work  was  not  hard, 
there  was  no  snow  to  shovel,  and,  besides,  the  trains 
passed  but  rarely  on  that  road.  Semen  would  walk 
over  his  verst  twice  in  twenty-four  hours,  would 
tighten  a  screw  here  and  there,  pick  up  a  splinter, 
examine  the  water-pipes,  and  go  home  to  take  care 
of  his  little  homestead.  The  only  thing  that  both- 
ered him  and  his  wife  was :  no  matter  what  they  made 
up  their  minds  to  do,  they  had  to  ask  the  permission 
of  the  track-master,  who  again  had  to  lay  the  matter 
before  the  division-master,  and  when  permission  was 
at  last  given  the  time  had  already  passed,  and  it  was 
then  too  late  to  be  of  any  use  to  them.  On  account 
of  this,  Semen  and  his  wife  began,  at  times,  to  feel 
very  lonely. 

About  two  months  passed  in  this  way;  Semen  be- 
gan to  form  acquaintance  with  his  nearest  neighbors 
— trackmen  like  himself.  One  was  already  a  very  old 


THE  SIGNAL  169 

man,  whom  the  railway  authorities  had  long  intended 
to  replace;  he  could  hardly  move  from  his  watch- 
house,  and  his  wife  attended  to  his  duties.  The  other 
trackman,  who  lived  nearer  to  the  station,  was  still  a 
young  man,  thin  and  sinewy.  Semen  met  him  for  the 
first  time  on  the  railroad-bed  half-way  between  their 
watch-houses,  while  they  were  making  their  rounds; 
Semen  took  off  his  cap  and  bowed.  "Good  health  to 
you,  neighbor,"  he  said. 

The  neighbor  looked  at  him  askance.  "How  are 
you?"  he  replied,  turned,  and  went  his  way. 

The  women  also  met  afterward.  Arina,  Semen's 
wife,  greeted  her  neighbor  affably,  but  this  neighbor, 
also  not  of  the  talkative  kind,  spoke  a  few  words  and 
walked  away.  On  meeting  her  once,  Semen  asked: 

"Why  is  your  husband  so  uncommunicative,  young 
woman?"  After  standing  for  some  time  in  silence, 
she  said:  "But  what  should  he  talk  to  you  about? 
Everybody  has  his  troubles — God  speed  you." 

But  after  another  month  had  passed,  their  intimacy 
grew.  Now,  when  Semen  and  Vasili  met  on  the  road- 
bed, they  sat  down  on  the  edge,  smoked  their  pipes, 
and  told  each  other  of  their  past  life  and  experiences. 
Vasili  spoke  but  little,  but  Semen  told  of  his  campaign 
life  and  of  his  native  village. 

"I  have  seen  plenty  of  sorrow  in  my  time,  and  God 
knows  I  am  not  so  very  old  either.  God  has  not 
given  us  much  luck.  It  just  depends:  the  kind  of  a 
lot  the  dear  Lord  portions  out  to  one — such  he  must 
have.  This  is  the  way  I  make  it  out,  Vasili  Stepanich, 
little  brother." 


170  '  VSEVOLOD   GARSHIN 

And  Vasili  struck  the  bowl  of  his  pipe  on  the  rail  to 
empty  it,  and  said: 

"It  isn't  luck  nor  fate  which  is  eating  your  life  and 
mine  away,  but  people.  There  is  not  a  beast  more 
cruel  and  rapacious  than  man.  A  wolf  does  not  devour 
a  wolf — but  man  eats  man  alive." 

"Well,  brother,  wolf  does  eat  wolf — that  is  where 
you  are  wrong." 

"It  came  to  my  tongue,  so  I  said  it;  anyhow  there 
is  not  a  more  cruel  beast.  If  it  were  not  for  man's 
viciousness  and  greed — 'twould  be  possible  to  live. 
Every  one  is  on  the  lookout  to  grasp  at  your  vitals, 
tear  off  a  piece,  and  gobble  it  up." 

"I  don't  know,  brother,"  said  Semen  after  thinking 
a  bit.  "Maybe  it  is  so — but  if  it  is  really  so,  then 
the  great  God  ordained  it  in  this  way." 

"And  if  it  is  so,"  spoke  Vasili,  "then  there  is  no 
use  of  my  speaking  to  you.  A  man  who  attributes 
to  God  every  kind  of  iniquity,  and  himself  sits  and 
patiently  bears  it,  can  not  be  a  man,  brother  mine — 
but  an  animal.  Here  you  have  my  whole  say !" 

And  he  turned  and  went  off  without  even  saying 
good-by.  Semen  rose  also  and  called  after  him; 
"Neighbor,  and  what  are  you  abusing  me  for?" 

But  the  neighbor  did  not  even  turn  around,  and 
went  his  way. 

Semen  looked  after  him  till  he  was  lost  from 
sight  at  the  turn  of  the  road,  then  he  returned 
home  and  said  to  his  wife:  "Well,  Arina,  what  a 
venomous  man  that  neighbor  of  ours  is!" 

Nevertheless  they  were  not  angry  with  each  other; 


THE  SIGNAL  171 

and  when  they  met  again  they  spoke  as  if  nothing  had 
happened  and  on  the  very  same  topic. 

"Ei,  brother,  if  not  for  the  people — we  would  not 
sit  here  in  these  watch-houses,"  spoke  Vasili. 

"Well,  what  if  we  do  live  in  a  watch-house?  It  is 
not  so  bad  to  live  in  one,  after  all." 

"Not  so  bad  to  live,  not  so  bad —  Ech,  you !  You 
lived  long,  but  gained  little;  looked  at  much,  but  saw 
little.  A  poor  man,  no  matter  where  he  lives,  in  a 
railway  watch-house  or  in  any  other  place,  what  sort 
of  a  life  is  his?  Those  fleecers  are  eating  your  life 
away,  squeeze  all  your  juice  out,  and  when  you  have 
grown  old  they  throw  you  out  like  some  swill,  for  the 
pigs  to  feed  on.  How  much  wages  do  you  get?" 

"Well,  not  much,  Vasili  Stepanich,  twelve  rubles" 
(about  seven  dollars  and  a  half). 

"And  I  thirteen  and  a  half.  Allow  me  to  ask  you 
why !  According  to  the  rulings  of  the  administration, 
every  one  of  us  is  supposed  to  get  the  same  amount 
— fifteen  rubles  a  month,  and  light  and  heat.  Who 
was  it  that  allotted  you  and  me  twelve,  or  say,  thir- 
teen and  a  half  rubles?  Allow  me  to  ask  you? — 
And  you  say  it  is  not  so  bad  a  life?  Understand  me 
well,  it  is  not  about  the  three  or  one  and  a  half 
rubles  I  am  wrangling  about — but  even  if  they  paid 
me  the  whole  amount —  Last  month  I  was  at  the 
station  when  the  director  happened  to  pass.  I  saw 
him  there.  Had  the  honor.  He  occupied  a  whole 
private  car  by  himself — on  the  station  he  alighted  and 
stood  on  the  platform,  looking — no,  I  will  not  stay 
here  long ;  I  shall  go  where  my  eyes  will  lead  me." 


172  VSEVOLOD  GARSHIN 

"But  where  will  you  go,  Stepanich  ?  Let  well  alone, 
you  will  not  find  it  much  better  anywhere.  You  have 
a  home  here,  warmth,  arid  a  bit  of  land.  Your  wife 
is  an  able  workwoman — " 

"Land!  You  ought  to  see  the  land  I  have — why, 
there  isn't  a  stick  on  it.  This  spring  I  planted  some 
cabbages.  Well,  one  day  the  track-master  passed: 
'What  is  this?'  he  says.  'Why  did  you  not  report  it? 
Why  not  have  waited  for  permission?  Dig  it  out  at 
once  and  not  a  vestige  should  be  left  of  it.'  He  was  in 
his  cups.  At  another  time  he  would  not  have  said  a 
word,  and  here  he  got  it  into  his  head —  Three  rubles 
fine!—" 

For  some  moments  Vasili  pulled  at  his  pipe  in 
silence,  then  he  said  in  a  low  voice:  "It  wanted  but 
little  more,  and  I  would  have  made  short  work  of 
him." 

"Well,  neighbor,  you  are  a  hot-head,  I  can  tell  you." 

"I  am  not  hot,  I  am  only  speaking  and  considering 
everything  from  the  point  of  justice.  But  he  will  get 
it  from  me  yet,  the  red-mug;  I  shall  make  a  com- 
plaint to  the  master  of  the  division  in  person.  We 
shall  see!" 

And  he  really  complained. 

Once  the  master  of  the  division  came  to  make  a 
preliminary  inspection  of  the  road.  In  three  days' 
time  very  important  gentlemen  were  expected  from 
St.  Petersburg  to  make  an  inspection  of  the  road: 
everything  had  to  be  made  ship-shape;  some  new 
gravel  was  ordered  before  their  arrival,  added,  lev- 
eled, and  smoothed  out,  the  sleepers  were  examined, 


THE   SIGNAL  173 

the  nuts  tightened,  the  verst-posts  newly  painted,  and 
the  order  was  given  that  some  fine  yellow  sand  be 
strewn  over  the  crossings.  A  track-woman  even 
drove  her  old  man  out  of  the  nearest  watch-house, 
which  he  almost  never  left,  in  order  to  trim  a  little 
the  tiny  grass-plot.  Semen  worked  a  whole  week  to 
bring  everything  into  first-rate  order,  even  mended 
his  coat  and  burnished  his  brass  shield  till  it  shone. 
Vasili  also  worked  hard. 

At  last  the  division  master  arrived  in  a  buzzing 
draisine  (hand  car),  worked  by  four  men  and  mak- 
ing twenty  versts  an  hour.  It  came  flying  toward 
Semen's  watch-house,  and  Semen  sprang  forward 
and  reported  in  military  fashion.  Everything  appeared 
to  be  correct. 

"Are  you  long  here?"  asked  the  master. 

"Since  the  second  of  May,  your  honor/' 

"Very  well,  thank  you.  And  who  is  at  Number 
164?"  " 

The  track-master  who  rode  with  him  on  the  draisine 
replied:  "Vasili  Spiridov." 

"Spiridov,  Spiridov —    Oh,  the  one  you  reported?" 

"The  very  same." 

"Very  well,  let  us  have  a  look  at  Vasili  Spiridov. 
Go  ahead." 

The  workmen  leaned  upon  the  handles  and  the  drai- 
sine flew  farther.  "There  will  be  a  fight  between  them 
and  the  neighbor,"  thought  Semen,  looking  after  the 
disappearing  draisine. 

About  two  hours  later  Semen  went  on  his  rounds. 
He  saw  that  some  one  was  coming  toward  him,  walk- 


174  VSEVOLOD  GARSHIN 

ing  over  the  railroad  bed,  and  there  was  something 
white  visible  on  his  head.  Semen  strained  his  eyes  to 
see  who  it  was — Vasili ;  in  his  hand  he  carried  a  stick 
and  a  small  bundle  was  slung  across  his  shoulders,  and 
one  cheek  was  tied  up  with  a  white  kerchief. 

"Where  are  you  going,  neighbor?"  Semen  shouted 
to  him. 

When  Vasili  approached  him  closer,  Semen  saw 
that  he  was  as  pale  as  chalk  and  wild-eyed ;  and  when 
he  started  to  speak  his  voice  broke. 

"I  am  off  to  the  city,"  he  said,  "to  Moscow — to  the 
main  office  of  the  administration." 

"To  the  administration —  Is  that  it!  You  are 
going  to  make  a  complaint,  are  you?  Better  not, 
Vasili  Stepanich,  forget  it — " 

"No,  brother,  I  will  not  forget  it.  It  is  too  late  to 
forget.  You  see,  he  struck  me  in  the  face,  beat  me  till 
the  blood  flowed.  As  long  as  I  live,  I  will  not  forget 
it,  nor  let  it  go  at  this." 

"Give  it  up,  Stepanich,"  Semen  spoke  to  him,  tak- 
ing hold  of  his  hand.  "I  speak  truth:  you  will  not 
make  things  better." 

"Who  speaks  of  better!  I  know  myself  that  I  will 
not  make  them  better;  you  spoke  truly  about  fate — 
you  did.  I  shall  not  do  much  good  to  myself,  but  one 
has  to  stand  up  for  justice." 

"But  won't  you  tell  me  how  it  all  came  about  ?" 

"How  it  all  came  about—  Well,  he  inspected 
everything,  left  the  draisine  on  purpose  to  do  so — even 
looked  inside  the  watch-house.  I  knew  beforehand 
that  he  would  be  strict — so  I  had  everything  in  first- 


THE   SIGNAL  175 

class  order.  He  was  already  going  to  leave  when  I 
came  forward  with  my  complaint.  He  immediately 
burst  forth:  'Here/  he  said,  'is  to  be  a  government 
inspection,  you — so  and  so — and  you  dare  come  for- 
ward with  your  complaints  about  your  vegetable  gar- 
den !  We  are  expecting  privy  councilors  and  he  comes 
with  his  cabbages!'  I  could  not  control  myself  and 
said  a  word — not  so  very  bad  either,  but  it  seemed  to 
offend  him  and  he  struck  me —  And  I  stood  there,  as 
if  it  was  the  most  usual  thing  in  the  world  to  happen. 
Only,  when  they  went  off,  I  came  to  my  senses,  washed 
off  the  blood  from  my  face  and  went  away." 

"And  what  about  the  watch-house  ?" 

"My  wife  is  there,  she  will  take  care;  and  besides, 
the  devil  take  their  road,  anyway !" 

"Good-by,  Ivanich,"  he  said  to  Semen  on  taking 
leave  of  him ;  "I  don't  know  if  I  shall  find  justice  for 
myself." 

"You  don't  mean  to  tell  me  that  you  will  go  on 
foot?" 

"I  shall  ask  them  at  the  station  to  let  me  ride  in  a 
freighter;  to-morrow  I  shall  be  in  Moscow." 

The  neighbors  took  leave  of  each  other  and  each 
went  his  way.  Vasili  stayed  away  for  a  long  time. 
His  wife  did  all  the  work  for  him,  sleeping  neither 
night  nor  day,  and  looked  very  worn  and  exhausted. 
On  the  third  day  the  inspectors  passed :  an  engine, 
freight-car,  and  two  private  cars,  and  Vasili  was  still 
absent.  On  the  fourth  day  Semen  saw  Vasili's  wife; 
her  face  was  swollen  with  incessant  weeping  and  her 
eyes  were  very  red.  "Has  your  husband  returned?" 


176  VSEVOLOD  GARSHIN 

he  asked  her.     She  only  waved  her  arm,  but  did  not 
utter  a  word. 


When  still  a  little  boy  Semen  had  learned  how  to 
make  willow  pipes.  He  burnt  out  the  pith,  drilled 
out  where  necessary  the  tiny  finger-holes,  and  finished 
up  the  end  of  the  pipe  so  artistically  that  almost  any- 
thing could  be  played  on  it.  At  odd  moments  he  now 
made  lots  of  such  pipes  and  sent  them  with  an  ac- 
quaintance of  his,  a  freight  conductor,  to  the  city, 
where  they  were  sold  at  two  copecks1  a  pipe.  On  the 
third  day  after  the  inspection  he  left  his  wife  at  home 
to  meet  the  six  o'clock  train,  took  his  knife  and  went 
into  the  woods  to  cut  his  willow  sticks.  He  came  to 
the  end  of  his  section,  where  the  road  made  a  sharp 
turn,  descended  the  embankment  and  went  up  the  hill. 
About  a  half  verst  farther  was  a  large  bog,  around 
which  grew  splendid  shrubs  for  his  pipes.  He  cut  a 
whole  heap  of  sticks  and  went  home,  again  walking 
through  the  wood.  The  sun  was  already  low;  and  a 
deathlike  quiet  reigned  all  about,  only  the  chirping  of 
the  birds  could  be  heard  and  the  crackling  underfoot 
of  the  wind- fallen  wood.  A  little  more  and  he  would 
reach  the  railroad  bed;  suddenly  it  seemed  to  him  as 
if  he  heard  coming  from  somewhere  the  clang  of  iron 
striking  on  iron.  Semen  hurried  his  steps.  "What 
can  it  be?"  he  asked  himself,  knowing  that  no  repairs 
were  going  on  in  that  section  at  that  time.  He  reached 
the  edge  of  the  wood — before  him  rose  high  the  em- 

1  A  copeck  is  a  little  more  than  half  a  cent.  100  copecks  make 
a  silver  ruble,  or  60  cents. 


THE  SIGNAL.  177 

bankment  of  the  railway;  and  he  saw  on  the  top — on 
the  railroad  bed — a  man  squatting  down  at  work  on 
something.  Semen  began  to  ascend  the  embankment 
very  quietly,  thinking  that  some  one  was  trying  to 
steal  the  screw-nuts.  He  saw  the  man  rise;  in  his 
hand  he  held  a  crowbar;  he  quickly  shoved  the  crow- 
bar under  the  rail  and  gave  it  a  push  to  one  side — 
Semen  felt  everything  grow  dim;  he  tried  to  shout, 
but  could  not.  He  saw  that  it  was  Vasili,  and  made 
a  dash  for  the  embankment,  but  Vasili  was  already 
rolling  down  the  other  side  of  the  embankment  with 
the  rail-key  and  crowbar. 

"Vasili  Stepanich !  Little  father,  friend,  come  back ! 
Give  me  the  crowbar !  Let  us  put  the  rail  in  place ;  no 
one  will  ever  know.  Come  back,  save  your  soul  from 
a  great  sin!" 

But  Vasili  did  not  even  turn  round,  and  went  on 
into  the  woods. 

Semen  remained  standing  over  the  dislocated  rail, 
his  sticks  lying  in  a  heap  at  his  feet.  The  train  which 
was  due  was  not  a  freighter,  but  a  passenger  train, 
and  he  had  nothing  to  stop  it  with :  a  flag  he  had  none. 
He  could  not  put  the  rail  into  its  right  place ;  with  bare 
hands  one  can  not  fasten  in  the  rail  spikes.  He  had 
to  run,  run  for  dear  life  into  his  watch-house  for  the 
necessary  implements!  God  give  him  strength! 

And  Semen  started  to  run  breathlessly  toward  his 
watch-house.  He  ran — now,  now  he  would  fall — at 
last  he  left  the  wood  behind,  he  had  only  about  seven 
hundred  feet  left  to  his  watch-house — suddenly  he 
heard  the  factory  whistle.  Six  o'clock,  and  at  two 


178  VSEVOLOD   GARSHIN 

minutes  past  six  the  train  would  pass.  Great  God! 
Save  the  innocent  souls!  And  before  his  eyes  he 
seemed  to  see  how  the  left  wheel  of  the  engine  would 
strike  the  cut  rail,  quiver,  slant  to  one  side,  and  tear 
the  sleepers,  knock  them  all  to  slivers,  and  just  here — 
is  the  rounded  curve,  and  the  embankment — and  the 
engine,  the  cars,  all — would  go  pell-mell  down,  down 
from  the  height  of  seventy-seven  feet,  and  the  third- 
class  cars  were  jammed  full  of  people,  little  children 
among  them.  Now  they  were  sitting  tranquilly,  not 
thinking  of  anything.  O  Lord,  teach  him  what  to 
do!  No,  he  would  not  be  able  to  get  to  the  watch- 
house  and  return  in  time. 

Semen  gave  up  his  intention  of  running  to  the 
watch-house,  turned  and  ran  back  quicker  than  he  had 
come,  his  head  in  a  whirl;  not  knowing  himself  what 
would  happen  he  ran  up  to  the  cut  rail :  his  sticks  lay 
scattered  all  around.  He  bent  down  and  took  one  of 
the  sticks,  not  understanding  himself  why  he  did  it; 
and  ran  farther.  And  it  seemed  to  him  that  the  train 
was  already  approaching.  He  heard  a  far-away 
whistle,  heard  the  rails  begin  to  quiver  measuredly  and 
quietly:  he  had  no  more  strength  left  to  run.  He 
stopped  about  seven  hundred  feet  from  the  fatal  spot : 
suddenly  he  became  illuminated,  as  it  were,  by  a 
thought. 

He  took  off  his  hat,  took  from  it  a  handkerchief; 
took  out  his  knife  from  his  boot-leg  and  crossed  him- 
self. God's  blessing ! 

He  slashed  his  left  arm  a  little  above  the  elbow  with 
his  sharp  knife;  the  blood  spurted  down  in  a  hot 


THE   SIGNAL  179 

stream;  he  dipped  his  handkerchief  in  it,  smoothed  it 
out,  tied  it  to  his  stick,  and  displayed  his  red  flag. 

He  stood  waving  the  flag;  the  train  was  already  in 
sight.  The  engineer  did  not  see  him,  he  would  come 
nearer,  but  at  a  distance  of  seven  hundred  feet  he 
would  not  be  able  to  stop  the  heavy  train ! 

And  the  blood  was  pouring  and  pouring —  Semen 
pressed  his  hand  to  his  side,  but  the  blood  would  not 
stop;  evidently  he  had  made  too  deep  a  cut  into  the 
arm;  his  head  was  beginning  to  turn;  he  was  getting 
dizzy,  as  if  black  flies  were  swimming  in  his  eyes ;  then 
everything  became  altogether  dark,  and  loud  bells  were 
ringing  in  his  ears —  He  no  longer  saw  the  train,  no 
longer  heard  the  noise:  only  one  thought  predomi- 
nated: "I  will  not  be  able  to  keep  on  my  feet,  will 
fall  down,  drop  the  flag ;  the  train  will  pass  over  me  ? — 
Dear  God,  succor,  send  some  one  to  relieve  me — " 
His  soul  became  a  void,  and  he  dropped  the  flag.  But 
the  bloody  flag  did  not  fall  to  the  ground :  some  one's 
hand  caught  it  and  raised  it  aloft  in  front  of  the  oncom- 
ing train.  The  engineer  saw  him  and  brought  the 
engine  to  a  stop. 

The  people  came  rushing  from  the  train;  soon  they 
gathered  into  a  crowd ;  before  them  lay  a  man,  uncon- 
scious, covered  with  blood;  another  man  stood  beside 
him  with  a  bloody  rag  tied  to  a  stick. 

Vasili  surveyed  the  crowd  and  lowered  his  head. 

"Bind  me,"  he  said;  "it  was  I  who  cut  the  rail." 


THE    CURSE    OF    FAME 


BY   IGNATIY   NIKOLAIEVITCH    POTAPENKO 


Potapenko  was  born  in  1856  and  received 
a  university  education  at  Odessa  and  at  St. 
Petersburg.  In  1881  he  made  his  first  mark 
as  an  author  with  a  series  of  short  stories 
and  sketches.  Since  then  he  has  contributed 
to  Russian  literature  many  romances,  novels, 
tales  and  plays.  Like  the  Belgian  dramatist, 
Maeterlinck,  he  seems  to  select  a  few  insistent 
notes  with  masterly  judgment,  and  then  strikes 
these  over  and  over  again  until  the  overtones 
are  heard  and  produce  of  themselves  the  full 
effect  of  harmony. 

The  general  opinion  among  critics  of  Russian 
literature  is  that  Potapenko,  though  ranking 
by  no  means  with  the  first  of  Russian  writers, 
has  reached  in  this  single  instance  of  ' '  The 
Curse  of  Fame  ' '  a  high-water  mark  equal  to 
the  best. 


THE    CURSE    OF   FAME 

BY   IGNATIY    POTAPENKO 

THE  small  Hall  of  the  Conservatory  of  Music 
was  but  half  illuminated.  Along  the  walls 
only  alternate  sconces  were  lighted,  and  only 
those  jets  of  the  great  chandelier  nearest  the  platform 
were  burning.  On  this  particular  evening — a  private 
"Students'  Recital" — none  but  fellow  pupils  and  near 
relatives  of  the  performers  were  admitted.  The  Hall 
was  rather  empty.  The  visitors  sat  near  the  platform, 
and  the  students  were  in  possession  of  the  back  seats. 
This  arrangement  enabled  the  young  women  to  gossip 
among  themselves,  or  to  flirt  with  the  young  men,  and 
gave  the  latter  an  opportunity  to  besiege  and  conquer 
the  young  women's  hearts.  In  fact  it  seemed  as  if  the 
entire  interest  of  the  young  people  at  these  "Students' 
Recitals"  centred  in  this  occupation.  The  performers 
were  students  of  mediocre  talent,  or  sometimes  chil- 
dren who  gave  promise  of  future  proficiency,  but  the 
pieces  they  played  had  long  since  ceased  to  arouse 
interest. 

The  nights  of  the  "Grand  Concerts"  are  quite 
a  different  matter.  The  public  is  then  admitted, 
a  struggle  for  seats  takes  place,  the  Hall  is  fully 
lighted,  and  the  platform  is  occupied  by  the  favorite 
pupils  of  the  professors — those  idols  of  the  Conser- 

Translated  by  A.  Lionel.  Copyright,  1896,  by  the  Current  Literature 
Publishing  Co. 

£— VOL.  i  (183) 


184  IGNATIY   POTAPENKO 

vatory,  who  are  some  day  to  make  the  institution 
famous.  On  these  occasions  the  students  turn  out  in 
great  numbers,  and  unable  to  find  room  in  the  crowded 
Hall,  they  squeeze  into  the  corridors,  treading  on  one 
another's  toes. 

An  adult  flautist  with  yellow  mustaches  has  just 
concluded  his  number,  and,  with  a  face  flushed  from 
exertion,  has  stepped  off  the  platform  and  disappeared 
in  the  corridor.  No  one  has  noticed  whether  his  play- 
ing was  good  or  bad.  He  has  managed  to  get  through 
the  piece  assigned  him  by  his  master  without  a  mis- 
take in  the  tempo.  That  at  least  is  commendable. 
Presently  a  boy  came  on  the  platform.  He  appeared 
to  be  about  twelve  years  of  age.  His  small,  oval  face 
was  pale,  and  his  fair  hair  carefully  brushed  and 
parted  on  one  side.  In  one  hand  he  held  a  violin, 
somewhat  smaller  than  the  usual  size,  and  in  the  other 
hand  the  bow.  He  was  dressed  in  a  short,  dark  gray 
coat  and  knickerbockers.  Probably  neither  the  appear- 
ance nor  the  playing  of  this  boy  would  have  attracted 
any  more  attention  than  that  of  the  flautist  had  the 
professor  not  followed  him  on  the  platform,  and  seat- 
ing himself  at  the  piano,  commenced  a  little  prelimi- 
nary improvisation.  He  evidently  intended  to  play 
the  boy's  accompaniment.  This  caused  some  surprise 
and  stir  in  the  back  rows. 

"Who  is  the  boy?  Onkel  himself  is  going  to  play 
his  accompaniment!"  queried  the  young  lady  pianists 
of  their  neighbors,  the  barytones. 

These  barytones  were  the  acknowledged  irresistibles 
of  the  institution.  They  sat  in  studied  attitudes  and 


THE  CURSE  OF  FAME  185 

answered  questions  loftily,  scarcely  deigning  to  open 
their  teeth.  But  this  time  they  could  make  no  reply. 

"What?  Don't  you  know?"  respectfully  asked  the 
trombone  player  who  sat  in  front,  turning  his  head. 
Trombone  players  are  generally  of  awkward,  timid 
disposition,  and  while  barytones,  tenors,  basses,  and 
violinists  revel  in  dreams  of  future  greatness,  the 
trombonist's  aspirations  rise  no  higher  than  the 
back  row  of  the  orchestra.  This  must  account  for 
the  lady  pianists'  hardness  of  heart  toward  them,  not 
to  speak  of  the  indifference  of  the  lady  singers,  who 
are  so  constantly  devoured  by  the  ardent  fire  of  their 
ambition. 

"It  is  Spiridonoff,  who  is  full  of  brilliant  promise," 
explained  the  trombonist.  "Onkel  says  he'll  be  a 
second  Paganini,  and  he  hopes  to  make  his  own  name 
famous  through  the  boy." 

"Oh,  Spiridonoff!    Is  that  he?" 

For  the  last  year  all  have  heard  and  spoken  of 
Spiridonoff.  The  boy  had  made  marvelous  progress. 
Even  now  he  could  have  played  in  public  and  put 
many  a  grown  violinist  to  shame.  But  Onkel  would 
not  allow  it.  He  guarded  his  young  talent  with  the 
utmost  care. 

"Why  is  he  so  pale,  poor  little  fellow?"  asked  the 
florid  soprano,  whose  interest  had  been  aroused  by 
the  words  of  the  trombonist. 

"Pallor  is  an  attribute  of  true  talent,"  stated  the 
barytone.  He  had  a  pale  face  surmounted  by  a  shock 
of  black  hair. 

The  trombonist,  overwhelmed  by  the  remark — he 


186  IGNATIY   POTAPENKO 

possessed  neither  pallor  nor  talent — again  turned  his 
face  to  the  platform. 

Among  the  friends  of  the  performers,  in  the  second 
row,  on  the  last  chair  to  the  left,  sat  a  man  whose 
eyes  were  riveted  on  the  boy  with  unswerving  atten- 
tion. He  was  tall  and  slender.  His  thin  hair  was 
combed  over  from  the  right  temple  to  the  left,  and 
stuck  down  with  pomatum  in  an  evident  desire  to 
hide  a  conspicuous  baldness.  He  must  have  been  over 
fifty  years  of  age,  as  there  were  many  and  deep 
wrinkles  in  his  forehead,  and  his  cheeks,  and  around 
his  eyes  and  chin.  His  thin  hair  too  was  thickly 
streaked  with  gray.  The  strongly  marked  eyebrows 
expressed  determination  and  obstinacy,  yet  there  was 
a  look  of  gentleness  in  the  eyes.  At  the  present 
moment  he  was  evidently  in  an  excited,  emotional 
and  expectant  frame  of  mind.  He  wore  a  long,  old- 
fashioned,  black  coat,  carefully  buttoned  up  to  the 
chin. 

The  pale  boy  played.  The  audience  particularly 
liked  the  unusual  firmness  with  which  he  held  his 
violin,  and  that  he  used  his  bow  like  a  familiar 
weapon.  Professor  Onkel  had  acted  boldly  in  select- 
ing a  showy  concert  piece  instead  of  a  pupils'  "study." 
But  what  would  you?  The  old  professor  was  greedy 
for  notoriety,  and  anxious  to  display  the  result  of 
his  style  of  teaching.  He  succeeded  well,  for  Spiri- 
donoff  played  splendidly.  He  executed  the  difficult 
passages  with  great  precision,  and  when  feeling  was 
to  be  expressed,  he  pressed  his  bow  on  the  string  with 
laudable  correctness.  Onkel  in  his  piano  accompani- 


THE  CURSE  OF  FAME  187 

ment  introduced  every  variety  of  light  and  shade.  His 
whole  body  assisted  in  the  work.  He  would  straighten 
himself,  stretch  his  neck,  or  slowly  throw  himself  back 
in  his  chair;  at  other  times  he  would  suddenly  fling 
himself  over  the  keys — in  short  he  played  with  his 
entire  being,  which  of  course  deepened  the  impres- 
sion produced  by  the  performance.  All  admired  the 
young  virtuoso,  whose  thin  little  legs  seemed  hardly 
able  to  support  his  fragile  frame.  When  he  finished 
playing  the  applause  resounded.  This  was  against  the 
rules,  but  what  rules  can  control  outbursts  of  wonder 
and  delight? 

Spiridonoff  made  a  hasty,  awkward  little  bow,  and 
left  the  platform,  followed  by  Onkel,  swelling  with 
pride  and  pompousness. 

While  the  next  aspirant  to  fame  tortured  his  instru- 
ment on  the  platform,  a  small  crowd  gathered  in  the 
corridor  and  surrounded  the  boy.  The  grand  Mse- 
caenas  with  the  long  gray  beard  was  there.  This 
patron  of  the  institution  never  missed  a  single  free 
concert;  in  fact,  he  knew  the  secret  of  making  them 
all  "free"  to  himself  by  procuring  ingress  to  the  Hall 
through  the  dressing-room.  He  patted  young  Spiri- 
donoff patronizingly  on  the  head,  and  disarranged  his 
carefully  combed  hair. 

"You  have  great  talent.  You  will  make  the  repu- 
tation of  the  Conservatory,  the  fame  of  Russia,"  he 
said,  gulping  his  words  as  if  in  the  act  of  hastily  swal- 
lowing hot  tea. 

The  young  ladies  gazed  tenderly  at  the  boy,  and 
sighed  pityingly  at  his  emaciation  and  pallor. 


188  IGNATIY   POTAPENKO 

Professor  Brendel  passed  by.  He,  too,  was  a  vio- 
linist, but  very  unlike  Onkel.  Brendel  was  tall  and 
slim,  Onkel  was  short  and  stout.  Brendel  came  from 
Leipsic,  Onkel  came  from  Munich.  Brendel  hated 
Onkel,  because  he  was  a  violinist,  and  according  to 
Brendel  there  should  be  but  one  violinist  in  the  world, 
and  that  one — Brendel.  Secondly,  he  hated  Onkel, 
because  this  wonder,  this  little  Spiridonoff  of  whom 
every  one  was  talking,  had  been  discovered  in  Onkel's 
class,  and  not  in  his — Brendel's.  Lastly,  he  hated 
Onkel  because  the  latter  dared  to  exist.  Brendel 
stopped  by  Spiridonoff  and  tapped  him  on  the  shoulder. 

"Not  bad!"  he  said  with  a  Leipsic  accent.  "Your 
technique  is  good  for  your  age,  but  why  did  you  make 
so  many  mistakes?" 

This  was  untrue,  and  against  his  own  conscience, 
but  he  wished  to  say  something  disagreeable  in  the 
presence  of  Onkel. 

"He  made  fewer  mistakes  than  Professor  Brendel 
does  in  making  that  remark,"  replied  Onkel  with  a 
Munich  accent. 

Brendel  pretended  not  to  hear  as  he  disappeared  at 
the  end  of  the  corridor. 

Little  Spiridonoff  was  tormented  on  all  sides.  They 
peered  into  his  eyes,  they  slapped  him  on  the  shoulder, 
they  patted  his  head,  stroked  his  cheeks,  chucked  him 
under  the  chin,  every  one  encouraged  him  and  pre- 
dicted future  greatness. 

He  looked  at  them  all  sadly,  and  received  their 
praises  with  indifference.  He  apparently  felt  shy  and 
weary  amid  all  these  ebullitions  of  feeling.  His  eyes 


THE  CURSE  OF   FAME  189 

searched  anxiously  for  some  one,  and  finally  rested 
reassured  on  the  wrinkled  face  of  the  tall  man,  who 
some  minutes  before  had  sat  at  the  end  of  the  second 
row,  and  listened  to  him  with  such  close  attention. 
The  man  eagerly  noted  all  the  compliments  showered 
on  the  boy.  He  was  leaning  against  the  half-open 
door  of  a  class-room,  which  was  this  evening  serving 
for  a  green  room,  and  holding  a  child's  thick  overcoat 
in  one  hand  and  in  the  other  a  violin  case.  He  ap- 
proached the  boy,  relieved  him  of  his  violin  and  bow, 
and  placed  them  in  the  case  with  care.  Then,  after 
putting  on  the  boy's  overcoat,  and  muffling  a  white 
silk  handkerchief  around  his  neck,  he  took  him  by  the 
hand,  and  led  him  downstairs. 

"Spiridonoff,"  Onkel  called,  arresting  their  steps, 
"prepare  yourself  for  the  Grand  Concert." 

The  man  in  the  black,  buttoned-up  coat  made  a  bow, 
and  then  continued  downstairs,  solicitously  assisting 
the  boy  at  every  step. 

"That's  his  father,"  somebody  remarked. 

"Fortunate  father,"  exclaimed  Onkel,  much  elated 
at  Spiridonoff's  success. 

It  was  a  winter  morning,  and  that  early  hour  when 
the  cold  is  even  severer  than  during  the  night.  The 
streets  were  still  dark,  and  the  lamps  burning.  None 
but  belated  pleasure  seekers  hastening  to  reach  home, 
or  factory  workmen  wrapped  in  sheepskins  hurrying 
to  their  work,  were  to  be  seen  about.  While  the  rest 
of  the  population  were  yet  lost  in  sleep,  a  fire  was 
lighted  in  the  small,  dingy  house  of  the  govern- 


190  IGNATIY   POTAPENKO 

merit  clerk,  Spiridonoff.  He  had  risen  at  six  o'clock, 
washed  and  dressed,  said  his  prayers,  and  cautiously 
tiptoed  into  the  hall.  The  house  was  terribly  cold. 
Mrs.  Spiridonoff,  who  was  twenty  years  younger  than 
her  husband,  lay  sleeping  in  a  large  bed  with  two  of 
her  children.  Her  head  was  swathed  in  a  cloth,  and 
a  mass  of  clothing  was  piled  on  the  top  of  the  blanket. 
This  was  the  only  way  in  which  they  could  keep  them- 
selves warm.  Old  Spiridonoff  went  through  the  hall, 
and  feeling  for  the  kitchen  door,  opened  it  and  entered. 
A  burning  lamp  emitted  an  unbearable  odor.  The 
cook,  like  her  mistress,  was  covered  over  head  and 
ears  in  rags.  It  was  difficult  to  tell  her  head  from 
her  feet. 

"Anna!  Arina!"  called  Spiridonoff  in  a  low  voice, 
shaking  her  with  both  hands.  "Get  up,  it  is  past  six 
o'clock." 

A  sigh  issued  from  the  rags.  Arina  was  evidently 
still  sleepy,  and  unwilling  to  exchange  the  warmth  of 
the  bed  for  the  outside  cold. 

"Arina,  have  we  any  wood?" 

"Wood?"  answered  a  voice  as  if  from  a  tomb,  "per- 
haps enough  to  heat  one  stove." 

"Good.  Get  up  and  light  the  fire  in  Mitia's  room. 
At  once,  do  you  hear?  He'll  be  getting  up  soon/' 
Arina's  nose  appeared  from  under  the  bedclothes. 

"In  Mitia's  room?  His  was  heated  yesterday. 
Perhaps  it  would  be  better  to  have  a  fire  in  the  bed- 
room. It  hasn't  had  one  for  two  days." 

"No,  no,  no.  Mitia's,  do  you  hear  ?  Mitia's  room 
must  be  warm." 


THE  CURSE  OF  FAME  191 

Arina  growled  her  disapproval,  nevertheless  she  got 
up  as  soon  as  Spiridonoff  left  the  room,  and  after  put- 
ting on  all  the  rags  which  had  served  as  her  bed  cov- 
ering, she  collected  the  wood  which  lay  under  the 
kitchen  table. 

"Devils — Anathemas/'  she  grunted,  but  in  such 
tones  that  no  one  could  hear  her.  "Call  themselves 
gentlefolks — keep  a  cook  indeed — haven't  money 
enough  to  buy  a  log  of  wood.  Mitia  is  the  only  one 
who  is  kept  warm." 

Spiridonoff  went  into  the  bedroom,  and  letting 
down  the  cambric  bed-curtain,  lit  a  candle.  He  had 
on  a  coat  of  fox  fur,  so  old  that  it  hung  in  tatters, 
and  could  only  be  worn  for  domestic  work.  He  sat 
down  by  the  table,  took  a  pen,  and  began  writing  with 
half  frozen  fingers.  From  time  to  time  he  laid  down 
his  pen,  breathed  on  his  hands,  warmed  them  by  the 
candle  flame,  and  then  resumed  his  work.  In  half  an 
hour  he  went  to  see  how  Mitia's  stove  was  getting  on. 
It  was  beginning  to  feel  warm. 

"Arina !"  again  ordered  Spiridonoff,  "take  a  piatak" 
(about  three  cents).  "Here  is  a  piatak.  Run  to  the 
little  store  and  buy  some  milk  and  boil  it.  Mitia  is 
going  to  get  up,  and  it  must  be  ready."  Arina  mut- 
tered that  she  didn't  care,  milk  or  no  milk,  boil  or 
not  boil — yet  she  started  off  to  buy  it  just  the  same. 
Spiridonoff  continued  to  write,  warm  his  hands  by  the 
candle,  and  write  again.  Arina  came  to  announce  that 
the  milk  was  boiling. 

"Aha!     Good!" 

The  old  man  rose  and  softly  opened  the  door  to  the 


192  IGNATIY  POTAPENKO 

left.  The  dim  light  thrown  by  the  candle  from  the 
bedroom  disclosed  a  very  small  room  containing  only 
three  articles  of  furniture — a  child's  bed,  a  chair,  and 
a  music-stand.  In  the  bed  the  little  virtuoso  of  last 
night,  Mitia  Spiridonoff  slumbered  sweetly  with  the 
blanket  drawn  up  to  his  chin.  The  chair  served  to 
hold  his  clothes,  the  stand  his  music,  while  on  the  floor 
stood  the  case  containing  his  violin.  The  room  was 
not  cold.  The  stove  had  not  had  time  to  get  chilled 
off  after  yesterday's  fire,  before  the  warmth  of  the 
new  fire  made  itself  felt.  Spiridonoff  took  the  candle, 
and  shutting  the  bedroom  door,  cautiously  sat  down 
on  the  little  bed.  "Mitenka,  Mitenka!"  he  called  in 
a  tender  low  voice. 

Mitia  opened  his  eyes  with  an  effort,  but  imme- 
diately closed  them  again. 

"Mitenka,  don't  you  want  to  get  up?  Eh?  Won't 
you  take  some  hot  milk  ?  Eh  ?" 

Mitia  again  opened  his  eyes.  At  first  he  looked  sur- 
prised, as  if  he  didn't  understand  what  was  wanted 
of  him.  Then  he  recognized  his  father,  and  made  a 
pathetic  grimace,  expressing  great  disinclination  to  be 
roused  from  his  sleep. 

"You  don't  want  to?  Wish  to  sleep?  Well,  sleep, 
sleep.  The  milk  can  wait." 

Mitia  turned  over  on  his  side  and  hid  his  face  from 
the  old  man.  But  the  old  man  did  not  leave  him.  He 
sat  still  for  a  moment,  then  stretched  out  his  hand  and 
patted  the  boy  on  the  back. 

"But  perhaps  you  will  get  up,  eh?  Mitenka!  It's 
nearly  seven  o'clock,  and  at  ten  you  have  to  go  to  your 


THE  CURSE  OF  FAME  193 

class.  When  will  you  do  your  practising?  You'd  bet- 
ter get  up,  Mitenka,  and  drink  some  warm  milk." 

Mitia  stretched  himself,  raised  his  arms,  made  an- 
other pitiful  grimace,  and  finally  sat  up  in  bed. 

"There's  a  bright  boy!  Good  Mitenka!  There, 
there,  I'll  dress  you,  wash  you.  You'll  say  your 
prayers,  drink  your  milk,  and  then  you'll  practise. 
Mr.  Onkel,  you  know,  said  you  must  prepare  for 
the  Grand  Concert.  You  must  exert  yourself  to  the 
utmost.  There'll  be  a  crowd  of  people  there,  and  the 
Prince  will  come,  and  ah,  we  shall  be  proud  of  our- 
selves. Here  are  your  trousers — put  them  on — 
That's  it!  and  here's  your  shirt.  What's  the  matter, 
Mitenka  darling?  What  is  it?" 

Mitia  with  his  father's  assistance  had  donned  his 
knickerbockers,  and  one  sleeve  of  his  shirt,  when  he 
suddenly  burst  out  crying. 

"I  am  sleepy,  Papa  dear,"  he  whined  in  a  sad,  faint 
little  voice. 

On  his  return  home  yesterday  evening  he  had  played 
for  an  hour  and  a  half,  and  on  going  to  bed  had 
dreamt  all  night  long  of  a  gigantic  violin.  In  his 
dream  his  father  kept  saying  to  him :  "Ah,  when  you 
have  played  on  this  instrument,  then  you  will  be  an 
artist."  And  now  he  was  so  sleepy,  and  there  again 
he  was  tormented  by  the  violin. 

The  old  man  wiped  away  the  child's  tears  with  his 
own  handkerchief.  The  boy  shook  himself,  threw  off 
the  blanket,  and  began  to  dress  briskly.  He  drank  the 
milk,  and  in  ten  minutes  stood  before  the  low  music- 
stand,  and  scraped  and  scraped  and  scraped  on  the  vio- 


194  IGNATIY  POTAPENKO 

lin.  About  nine  o'clock  the  mother  awoke.  Her  name 
was  Anna  Nikitischna.  She  was  of  a  contented  nature, 
by  reason  of  a  robust,  healthy  body,  which  was  easily 
kept  warm.  The  woman  and  the  children  flung  back 
the  bedclothes  and  other  coverings,  and  ran  from  the 
cold  room  into  Mitia's  small  one.  Old  SpiridonofI  was 
horrified. 

"How  dare  you?  Mitenka  is  practising.  Oh,  my 
God!  my  God!" 

"But  what  are  we  to  do,  Anton  Egoritsch  ?  It  is  so 
cold  the  children  will  freeze." 

"But,  my  God !  Mitenka  must  prepare  for  the  Grand 
Concert." 

"Well,  let  him  do  so.  In  what  way  do  we  hinder 
him  ?  May  we  not  stay,  Mitenka  ?" 

"Certainly,  mother,"  answered  Mitia  sweetly,  smil- 
ing at  his  youngest  sister  who,  happy  in  feeling  warm, 
had  begun  to  play,  and  was  trying  to  creep  into  the 
violin  case. 

At  half-past  nine  Anton  Egoritsch  himself  brought 
him  an  omelet,  and  taking  the  violin  from  his  hand, 
placed  it  in  the  case.  Mitia  hastily  ate  the  omelet, 
his  father  almost  feeding  him  while  drawing  on  an  old 
uniform.  Anton  Egoritsch  was  soon  due  at  his  post 
in  the  Chancery  Department,  where  he  occupied  the 
lowest  and  worst  paid  position — that  of  copyist.  He 
intended  to  hand  in  the  work  he  had  done  at  home, 
for  which  he  hoped  to  get  extra  pay.  In  that  case  a 
fire  would  be  lighted  in  the  bedroom,  and  the  little  girls 
would  have  breakfast.  Now  they  could  only  have  weak 
tea  and  rye  bread,  and  gaze  at  Mitia's  omelet  with 


THE  CURSE  OF  FAME  195 

hungry  eyes.  Mitia  would  gladly  share  it  with  them, 
but  Anton  Egoritsch  was  inexorable. 

"Have  patience,  children,  have  patience.  Father  will 
get  some  extra  money,  and  then  you  shall  breakfast 
too.  Mitenka  must  eat.  He  needs  all  his  strength. 
He'll  be  an  artist,  and  provide  for  us  all,  and  make  us 
famous.  That's  what  he'll  do,  children." 

Anna  Nikitischna,  who  never  contradicted  her  hus- 
band, looked  sadly  at  her  son.  Her  heart  contracted 
painfully  at  the  sight  of  his  thin  body,  his  pale  little 
face,  and  hollow  cheeks.  "The  food  does  him  no 
good,"  she  thought,  "and  whatever  the  future  may 
bring,  at  present  he  looks  wretched."  It  was  not  that 
she  doubted  Mitia's  future  fame;  on  the  contrary  her 
heart  joyfully  inclined  to  the  belief  when  Anton  Ego- 
ritsch related  to  her  how  surprised  and  delighted  the 
audience  had  been  last  night,  and  how  they  had  vied 
with  each  other  in  treating  Mitia  as  a  phenomenon. 
She  simply  understood  nothing  about  it  all,  and  when 
she  listened  to  the  monotonous  exercises  her  son  was 
constantly  practising,  she  couldn't  tell  whether  the 
playing  was  good  or  bad. 

After  the  omelet  was  finished,  Anton  Egoritsch 
wrapped  up  his  son  and  took  him  to  the  Conservatory. 
Mitia  not  only  studied  music  there,  but  also  other  sul> 
jects.  The  first  lesson  to-day  happened  to  be  "the  Rus- 
sian language."  There  were  about  thirty  boys  in  the 
class.  The  teacher  had  not  yet  arrived,  and  Mitia 
found  himself  in  the  midst  of  a  scrimmage,  which 
turned  out  to  be  a  game.  He  joined  in  the  romp,  and 
was  soon  jumping  and  turning  somersaults  with  un- 


196  IGNATIY   POTAPENKO 

usual  activity  and  liveliness.  What  the  others  did,  he 
did.  He  felt  cheerful  and  unrestrained.  The  deep  de- 
pression which  fell  on  him  in  consequence  of  incessant 
and  hard  practising  instantly  vanished.  The  boys  paid 
him  no  especial  attention,  but  just  treated  him  like  one 
of  themselves.  No  one  seemed  to  remember  the  laurels 
he  had  won  last  night,  or  dwell  upon  the  fact  that  he 
was  the  most  talented  student  of  the  Conservatory. 
They  were  all  aware  of  it,  but  there  was  no  time  to 
give  it  a  thought  at  such  a  moment.  The  game  was 
a  very  close  one,  and  the  combat  of  the  contending 
parties  very  sharp. 

The  teacher  entered,  every  boy  scrambled  to  his 
place,  and  quiet  was  restored. 

Mitia  breathed  hard,  his  cheeks  burned  hotly,  and  a 
pleasant  warmth  diffused  itself  over  his  small  frail 
body,  a  sensation  due  to  the  exercise  and  healthy 
fatigue  of  all  his  muscles. 

"If  mother  could  see  me  now,  how  pleased  she  would 
be !"  thought  the  boy,  remembering  how  frequently  she 
would  sigh  when  she  looked  at  him  and  say,  "Poor 
child,  why  are  you  so  pale?" 

The  lesson  over,  another  recess,  another  game- 
more  movement,  noise,  laughter — the  free  expansion 
of  childhood !  These  times  were  Mitia's  hours  of  rest. 
Let  it  not  be  imagined  he  did  not  love  his  work.  The 
violin  was  his  vocation.  Three  years  ago,  when  he 
was  nine  years  old,  he  had  begged  his  father  to  buy 
him  one,  and  was  very  happy  when  a  friend  of  his 
father,  a  fifth-rate  musician,  taught  him  how  to  hold 
the  violin  and  bow.  He  began  to  scrape  from  morn- 


THE  CURSE  OF  FAME 

ing  to  night,  profiting  by  the  few  hints  from  the  musi- 
cian. He  was  quick  to  comprehend  and  apply  the 
advice  given  him.  Anton  Egoritsch  at  first  regarded 
it  as  a  simple,  childish  amusement;  then  an  agreeable 
uncertainty  pervaded  his  mind.  His  son  might  possi- 
bly have  talent — great  talent!  He  had  often  heard 
stories  of  great  musicians,  who  had  sprung  from  poor 
and  obscure  origin.  What  if  his  son  were  destined  to 
greatness,  to  make  his  family  famous — the  poor  insig- 
nificant Spiridonoff — and,  above  all,  destined  to  make 
a  fortune,  and  to  lift  them  all  out  of  this  miserable 
poverty !  The  idea  entirely  possessed  him,  and  a  year 
later  he  took  the  boy  to  the  Conservatory.  He  re- 
turned after  Mitia's  first  examination  with  whirling 
brain.  The  committee  were  delighted  with  the  child. 
His  style  of  playing,  acquired  from  the  fifth-rate  musi- 
cian, broke  every  artistic  rule,  yet  the  boy's  talent  was 
so  evident  it  showed  in  every  movement  of  the  bow. 
Onkel  emphatically  declared  he  would  give  up  Spiri- 
donoff  to  nobody,  and  that  he,  Onkel,  as  the  oldest  pro- 
fessor of  the  institution,  had  the  right  of  choice.  This 
Brendel  denied,  asserting  that  Onkel  had  already  ruined 
more  than  one  pupil's  talent,  that  he  did  nothing  but 
ruin,  in  fact  couldn't  do  otherwise,  as  he  taught  the 
Munich  method — that  is  to  say,  a  bad  method.  Then 
Onkel  in  his  turn  derided  the  Dresden  method,  pro- 
claiming there  was  but  one  method  in  the  world — the 
Munich. 

Their  altercation,  conducted  in  Russian,  grew  louder 
and  louder,  and  at  last  when  it  reached  the  shouting 
stage,  lapsed  into  German,  Onkel  using  epithets  pecul- 


198  IGNATIY   POTAPENKO 

iar  to  Munich,  and  Brendel  those  distinctive  of  Leipsic. 
The  dispute  had  to  be  settled  by  the  Advisory  Commit- 
tee, who  assigned  Mitia  Spiridonoff  to  Onkel.  From 
that  moment  Brendel  doubted  Mitia's  talent.  But  this 
did  not  trouble  Anton  Egoritsch.  He  was  convinced 
of  his  son's  future  fame  and  wealth,  and  felt  grateful 
to  fortune  for  sending  him  such  good  luck.  His  whole 
soul  became  centred  in  rearing  up  the  prospective  great- 
ness of  the  Spiridonoff  family.  He  wanted  to  coerce 
fate.  His  scant  earnings  were  all  spent  on  Mitia.  Of 
the  two  rooms  occupied  by  the  family,  one  was  given 
to  Mitia,  because  he  needed  pure  air  and  quiet.  The 
rest  were  crowded  in  the  other  room,  which  served  as 
bedroom,  nursery,  workroom,  dining-room,  and  par- 
lor. Mitia  was  well  and  warmly  clad,  while  the  little 
girls  ran  around  in  anything.  Mitia's  food  was  unlike 
theirs.  He  had  breakfast,  and  a  different  piece  of  meat 
for  his  dinner,  also  milk  and  sweetmeats.  Mitia  had 
a  comfortable  little  bed,  a  soft  coverlet,  and  clean  and 
whole  linen.  Mitia  was  treated  like  a  well-paying 
boarder  in  a  poor  family.  Anton  Egoritsch  was  so 
absorbed  in  his  enthusiastic  cultivation  of  the  boy's 
talent,  and  the  glory  it  would  bring  to  the  Spiridonoffs 
that  he  often  forgot  the  very  existence  of  the  other 
members  of  his  family.  Mitia  on  his  part  was  forced 
to  pay  for  all  this  attention.  Every  step  he  took  was 
watched,  every  minute  of  his  time  was  taken  posses- 
sion of  by  his  father.  The  old  man  entrusted  him 
solely  to  the  Conservatory,  believing  that  every  sec- 
ond spent  there  brought  his  son  nearer  to  the  goal. 
But  as  soon  ?s  Mitia  returned  from  the  Conservatory, 


THE  CURSE  OF  FAME  199 

and  Had  had  his  dinner,  the  old  man  would  fondle  him 
with  one  hand  and  with  the  other  pass  him  the  violin. 

"Play  a  little,  dear  heart.  Mr.  Onkel  gave  you  the 
second  movement  to  study.  Play,  darling/' 

And  Mitia  played.  The  candles  were  lighted,  he 
rested  for  half  an  hour,  drank  tea  and  there!  Anton 
Egoritsch  lovingly  put  his  arm  around  him  again  and 
said: 

"Well,  Mitenka,  won't  you  try  this  twenty-first  ex- 
ercise ?  What  is  it  like  ? —  Well  ?  What  is  the  good 
of  wasting  time  ?" 

Mitia  never  refused,  because  Anton  Egoritsch  never 
ordered  or  compelled  him  to  work.  The  old  man  would 
always  ask  with  a  caress  or  a  joke  and  look  affection- 
ately into  his  eyes.  Yet  he  crushed  the  child,  ground 
him  down  with  his  zealous  care  and  eternal  supervision. 
And  Mitia  practised  and  practised.  His  progress  was 
a  surprise  to  the  Conservatory.  They  found  it  extraor- 
dinary, unnatural.  It  did  not  occur  to  them  that  Mitia's 
violin  and  bow  were  never  out  of  his  hands  from  seven 
in  the  morning  till  twelve  at  night,  except  when  walk- 
ing to  the  Conservatory  or  when  eating  his  breakfast 
or  his  dinner.  It  never  occurred  to  them  that  this  won- 
derful progress  was  poisoning  the  life  of  this  child,  and 
was  gradually  producing  a  hatred  in  him  of  the  very 
instrument  for  which  he  had  such  a  calling.  Least  of 
all  did  his  father  suspect  it.  His  fanatical  devotion  to 
the  future  greatness  of  the  Spiridonoffs  blinded  him 
to  all  else.  The  apathy,  the  languor,  expressed  in  the 
boy's  face  when  he  took  up  the  violin  and  placed  him- 
self before  the  low  music-stand,  were  ignored  by  him. 


200  IGNATIY   POTAPENKO 

He  was  impervious  to  the  looks  of  envy  that  Mitia, 
while  practising  the  everlasting  exercises,  would  cast 
through  the  open  door  into  the  next  room,  where  his 
little  sisters  were  playing.  He  would  not  notice  how 
the  boy,  unknown  to  himself,  would  stop  in  the  midst 
of  a  trill  and  stand  idly,  lost  in  thought.  The  father 
did  not  perceive  that  the  boy  was  fading  away  and 
becoming  silent,  indolent,  and  morose.  Anton  Ego- 
ritsch  beheld  only  the  future,  and  would  see  and  admit 
nothing  in  the  present  that  did  not  tend  toward  the 
realization  of  his  dream.  The  fulfilment  of  his  ambi- 
tion did  not  seem  far  distant  now  that  the  whole  city 
was  discussing  his  son's  genius.  He  mused:  "The 
Grand  Concert !  Mitenka  will  surprise  them.  They'll 
invite  him  to  their  fine  houses,  and  bestow  presents  on 
him.  He  will  give  his  own  concerts,  and  then,  with 
Heaven's  help,  he  will  go  abroad  and  astound  the 
world." 

After  his  other  classes  Mitia  had  a  lesson  with 
Onkel.  Onkel  praised  him  for  yesterday's  perform- 
ance, but  added  impressively:  "You  must  not  fail  at 
the  Grand  Concert.  You  must  work  hard  for  it." 

When  Anton  Egoritsch  returned  from  the  office, 
where  he  had  succeeded  in  obtaining  the  extra  money, 
he  called  at  the  Conservatory  for  Mitia.  Onkel  re- 
peated to  him :  "He  must  work  much  and  earnestly." 
These  words  caused  Anton  Egoritsch  to  double  his 
watchfulness.  Hardly  had  Mitia  finished  his  dinner 
that  day  when  the  violin  was  gently  pushed  into  his 
hands.  Anton  Egoritsch  encouraged  him  to  work  by 
giving  him  cakes  and  sweets,  producing  them  from 


THE  CURSE  OF  FAME  201 

time  to  time  from  his  pocket.  By  every  art  He  could 
devise  he  prolonged  the  child's  practising  till  one 
o'clock  in  the  morning.  Then  he  undressed  him,  put 
him  to  bed,  and  softly  left  the  room.  Mitia  buried 
his  face  in  the  pillow,  and  burst  into  tears  from  sheer 
fatigue  and  weariness  of  spirit.  That  Grand  Concert, 
which  the  imagination  of  Anton  Egoritsch  painted  in 
such  glowing  colors,  in  the  child's  mind  loomed  forth 
as  something  gloomy,  hateful,  disgusting. 

The  Grand  Concert  was  to  take  place  on  Saturday. 
On  Friday  morning  Anton  Egoritsch  was  up  at  five 
o'clock  instead  of  six,  and  bustling  around.  He  dressed 
in  an  absent-minded  sort  of  way,  putting  on  his  clothes 
in  a  totally  different  order  than  that  to  which  he  had 
been  accustomed  for  fifty  years  of  his  life.  First  came 
his  vest,  then  his  trousers,  and  dressing  gown.  He 
splashed  the  wall  badly  while  washing,  and  used  the 
sheet  instead  of  the  towel,  although  the  towel  hung 
close  to  his  hand.  He  woke  Arina  without  the  slight- 
est ceremony.  He  just  tore  the  rags  off  her,  and  the 
cold  made  her  promptly  leap  out  of  bed. 

"Milk,"  he  ordered  curtly,  and  went  to  Mitia's  room 
to  light  the  fire.  At  a  quarter  past  six  Mitia  stood 
ready  before  the  music-stand.  His  face,  habitually 
serene  and  sweet,  was  dark  and  angry.  He  did  not 
look  at  his  father,  and  complied  with  all  his  requests 
in  a  mechanical  manner. 

"Mitenka,  darling,"  rang  in  his  ear  the  tender, 
wearying  voice  of  Anton  Egoritsch.  "Mitenka,  my 
little  dove,  work  on.  The  day  after  to-morrow  you 


202  IGNATIY   POTAPENKO 

shall  sleep  long,  but  to-day  and  to-morrow  you  must 
work,  my  dear  heart.  Onkel  is  going  to  have  a  re- 
hearsal to-day,  and  you  must  do  your  very  best." 

Mitia  fixed  his  eyes  on  the  music  with  an  effort. 
They  felt  like  closing  all  the  while.  Never  had  he  so 
longed  to  return  to  his  warm  bed  as  this  morning. 
But  on  he  played  in  order  not  to  hear  his  father's 
persistent  entreaties.  He  did  not  understand  why,  but 
every  time  the  pleading  "Mitenka  darling"  struck  his 
ear  he  shuddered  from  head  to  foot,  and  his  heart  beat 
as  if  in  fright.  He  played  badly,  out  of  time,  out  of 
tune,  slurred  notes,  still  on  he  went  unceasingly,  only 
to  avoid  that  endlessly  repeated  "Mitenka,  little  love, 
little  darling.  Mr.  Onkel  said — " 

Anton  Egoritsch  did  not  go  to  his  office.  He  sent 
Arina  with  a  note  excusing  himself  on  the  plea  of  ill- 
ness. How  could  he  think  of  his  work  to-day,  when 
the  rehearsal,  so  to  say,  of  the  fame  of  the  Spiridonoffs, 
was  to  take  place?  He  had  no  doubt  of  Onkel's  com- 
plete satisfaction,  but  he  could  not  endure  the  thought 
of  Mitia  mounting  the  last  steps  to  glory  except  in  his 
presence.  Mitia  played  until  the  time  came  for  the 
omelet.  The  dish  was  nauseating  to  him  to-day.  All 
that  caused  his  isolation,  all  that  was  connected  with 
to-morrow's  event,  all  that  deprived  him  of  sleep,  rest, 
childhood's  play,  childhood's  freedom,  fresh  air,  sun- 
shine— Anton  Egoritsch,  the  violin,  Onkel,  the  ome- 
let— the  whole  combination  seemed  to  him  strange 
and  antagonistic,  and  he  would  gladly  have  run  away 
from  it  all.  Anton  Egoritsch  muffled  him  up  and  con- 
ducted him  to  the  Conservatory,  but  this  time  he  did 


THE  CURSE   OF  FAME  203 

not  leave  him  there  alone.  He  asked  Onkel's  permis- 
sion to  remain  in  the  class  during  the  rehearsal. 

"It  is  against  my  principles  to  allow  parents  to 
be  present  during  the  lessons,  but  I  can  not  refuse  a 
Spiridonoff,"  said  Onkel. 

The  rehearsal  was  appointed  at  eleven  o'clock,  and 
an  hour  intervened.  While  Anton  Egoritsch  and  Onkel 
were  discussing  the  various  means  whereby  renown 
would  come  to  them  both  through  Mitia,  the  latter 
made  his  way  to  the  large  corridor  on  the  upper  floor, 
where  the  boys  of  his  own  age  were  noisily  at  play. 
But  to-day  the  game  did  not  attract  him.  He  stood 
under  a  low  arch,  leaning  against  the  wall,  and  looked 
on  with  an  unusually  serious  countenance.  He  felt 
a  weariness,  an  exhaustion  through  his  whole  being, 
and  a  conviction  that  were  he  to  mingle  with  the  crowd 
of  boys  he  would  quickly  be  carried  off  his  feet,  thrown 
down,  and  jeered  at.  The  hustling,  the  rough  han- 
dling to  which  the  children  were  treating  each  other, 
and  which  in  their  excitement  they  scarcely  heeded,  it 
seemed  to  him  would  be  impossible  for  him  to  endure. 
He  knew  the  first  push  would  make  him  cry  out. 

A  pretty,  fair,  clean  little  fellow  ran  up  to  him. 
There  was  a  tacit  friendship  between  him  and  Mitia. 
They  were  drawn  to  each  other,  and  liked  to  sit  to- 
gether in  class,  and  walk  about  hand  in  hand  during 
recess.  Ernst  Klaider  was  the  son  of  the  organist  of 
the  Catholic  Church,  and  was  destined  for  his  father's 
profession.  He  was  a  kind,  good  boy,  with  gentle  blue 
eyes  and  a  pretty  smile  on  his  rosy  lips.  He  never 
joined  in  the  boisterous  games.  He  was  a  German, 


204  IGNATIY   POTAPENKO 

therefore  Onkel  would  pat  him  on  the  cheek  when  he 
met  him  on  the  stairs,  although  young  Klaider  was 
not  a  violinist. 

"Spiridonoff,"  said  the  embryo  organist,  "are  you 
going  to  play  to-morrow  ?" 

"Yes,  I'm  to  play,"  answered  Mitia  sadly. 

"Then  you  have  a  holiday  to-day  ?" 

Mitia  looked  at  him  inquiringly.  What  did  he  mean 
by  holiday?  He  never  had  a  holiday. 

"I  don't  know,"  he  said  vaguely. 

"Do  me  a  favor.  It's  my  little  sister's  Saint's  Day, 
and  we're  going  to  have  a  little  party  this  evening. 
Pikoloff  is  coming,  and  Kapustin  and  Kirik  and  Rapi- 
doff.  Do  come  too.  We'll  have  a  dance.  Won't  you 
come  ?" 

"A  dance?"  again  asked  Mitia  vaguely. 

It  seemed  an  unheard-of  possibility  to  him.  No, 
never  would  he  be  allowed  to  dance.  He  would  have 
that  violin  forced  upon  him  all  day,  and  then  all  night, 
and  again  all  day.  Ah!  just  as  these  thoughts  were 
crossing  his  mind,  and  he  was  preparing  to  shake  his 
head  and  say  that  his  father  would  never  premit  it,  he 
was  seized  by  the  hand,  and  compelled  to  turn  away. 

"Mitenka,  little  dove,  Mr.  Onkel  is  inquiring  for 
you,"  said  Anton  Egoritsch. 

Mitia  shuddered  and  meekly  followed  his  father. 
Klaider  gravely  went  up  to  Anton  Egoritsch.  "Mr. 
Spiridonoff,  won't  you  let  your  son  come  to  us  this 
evening?  We've  invited  some  friends,  and  we  are  to 
have  great  fun." 

Anton  Egoritsch  smiled  politely  and  indulgently. 


THE  CURSE  OF  FAME  205 

"No,  dear  boy.  Mitenka  can  not  come.  He  has  to 
play  to-morrow,"  he  said. 

Klaider  walked  away  and  the  others  went  down- 
stairs. In  Onkel's  classroom  there  were  only  grown- 
up pupils,  but,  in  spite  of  his  age,  Mitia  had  gained 
admittance,  because  of  his  extraordinary  talent. 

"Ah,  ah,  Paganini !"  exclaimed  Onkel  on  his  appear- 
ance. He  often  called  him  by  that  name.  "Well,  well, 
play  your  number.  But  why  are  you  so  pale  ?" 

"He  wasn't  very  well  in  the  night,  professor,"  Anton 
Egoritsch  hastened  to  reply,  but  without  adding  how 
many  hours  the  boy  had  been  at  work.  This  he  con- 
sidered innocent  and  justifiable  in  the  interest  of  Mi- 
tenka's  future  success.  Had  Onkel  known  the  truth, 
he  would  probably  have  been  less  amazed  at  the  prog- 
ress of  young  Spiridonoff.  The  boy  pulled  himself 
together,  summoned  up  his  courage,  and  played  with 
firmness  and  confidence.  Had  it  not  been  for  his  youth 
they  would  certainly  have  adjudged  his  playing  dry, 
lifeless,  studied,  forced.  But  everybody's  attention 
was  held  by  the  rapidity  with  which  the  small  fingers 
moved,  and  the  decision  with  which  the  bow  was 
guided  by  the  feeble,  childish  hand.  No  one  sought 
for  deep  feeling  or  soul  in  one  so  young. 

"What  technique,  what  a  grand  technique  for  such 
a  boy!"  cried  Onkel,  pointing  out  Mitia  with  emotion 
and  pride  to  the  older  pupils,  and  these,  influenced  by 
his  words,  spread  Mitia's  fame  throughout  the  Con- 
servatory. The  Director  himself  came  into  the  class- 
room to  listen.  He  shook  his  head:  "Incomprehensi- 
ble, how  could  a  boy  play  like  that!"  The  plaudits 


206  IGNATIY  POTAPENKO 

passed  by  Mitia  unheeded,  but  sank  deep  into  the  heart 
of  Anton  Egoritsch.  On  their  way  down  the  stairs 
Anton  Egoritsch  said  softly : 

"You  see,  Mitenka  darling,  how  good  it  was  you 
listened  to  me.  See  how  surprised  they  were." 

When  they  were  preparing  to  depart,  and  Anton 
Egoritsch  was  busied  in  wrapping  up  Mitia  as  if  he 
were  a  delicate  flower,  which  had  to  withstand  the 
frost,  Klaider,  who  was  also  getting  ready  to  go  out, 
approached  them. 

"Mr.  Spiridonoff,  won't  you  please  let  your  son  come 
to  us  to-day  ?"  entreated  the  fair  boy. 

Anton  Egoritsch  grew  red.  This  time  he  was 
angry,  and  would  not  even  give  an  answer.  He  took 
Mitia  into  the  street,  carrying  his  violin-case,  and  they 
stepped  into  a  hired  sleigh.  Klaider  gazed  after  them 
and  thought,  "What  a  stern  father  Spiridonoff  has." 

When  they  reached  home,  Mitia  greatly  pleased  his 
'father.  Hardly  had  he  eaten  his  dinner,  when,  of  his 
own  accord,  he  snatched  up  his  violin,  and  commenced 
playing  with  a  zeal  Anton  Egoritsch  had  not  observed 
in  him  for  a  long  time.  The  child  played  without  stop- 
ping. If  now  and  then  he  allowed  himself  a  moment's 
pause,  as  soon  as  the  door  would  open,  and  Anton 
Egoritsch  appear  on  the  threshold,  he  would  convul- 
sively seize  his  bow  and  play  on  faster.  Mitia  did  not 
himself  realize  what  made  him  do  this.  He  was  only 
conscious  that  if  he  heard  the  usual  "Mitenka  darling, 
little  dove,  you  must  do  your  best.  You  must  surprise 
everybody  to-morrow,"  his  hands  would  begin  to  trem- 
ble, and  he  would  drop  the  violin  to  the  floor.  There- 


THE  CURSE  OF  FAME  207 

fore  he  continued  to  play  on  and  on — to  exhaustion, 
to  stupefaction,  only  not  to  hear  those  or  any  other 
words  from  Anton  Egoritsch.  But  when  night  set  in, 
and  the  candles  were  lit,  Mitia  suddenly  put  down  the 
violin,  and  said :  "I  am  sleepy,  papa/' 

"But  how  so,  Mitenka?  You  mustn't  go  to  bed  like 
this.  You  must  first  drink  some  tea  and  get  warm." 

"No,  I  want  to  sleep,"  declared  Mitia,  sitting  on 
the  side  of  his  bed,  and  taking  off  his  boots.  Anton 
Egoritsch  was  going  to  assist  him  as  was  his  wont, 
but  Mitia  said : 

"It's  not  necessary,  father.  I  will  do  it  myself," 
and  he  quickly  slipped  off  his  clothes  and  crept  under 
the  blanket,  adding:  "Father,  put  out  the  candle." 

Anton  Egoritsch  was  somewhat  taken  aback  by  this 
uncommon  behavior.  He  always  undressed  Mitia  and 
put  him  to  bed ;  however,  he  did  not  venture  to  disturb 
the  hero  of  to-morrow  by  further  questions.  He  bent 
down  to  kiss  him  good  night,  but  Mitia  covered  his 
head,  and  Anton  Egoritsch  had  to  content  himself  with 
making  the  sign  of  the  cross  over  him  and  saying : 

"Well,  sleep,  little  dove,  sleep,"  thinking  mean- 
while that  the  boy  was  displaying  the  capricious  nature 
of  the  artist.  He  placed  the  candle  on  the  chair  by  the 
bedside  with  some  matches,  and  then  withdrew  on  tip- 
toe, carefully  closing  the  door. 

For  a  long  time  Mitia  lay  motionless,  huddled  under 
the  bedclothes.  His  limbs  felt  paralyzed,  his  nerves 
blunted,  no  thought  was  in  his  head,  no  desire  in  his 
heart,  only  an  indistinct  rumbling  in  his  ears,  tedious, 
continuous.  In  a  measure  as  he  got  warmed  through 
10— VOL,  i 


208  IGNATIY   POTAPENKO 

he  came  to  himself.  He  felt  oppressed  and  threw 
back  the  blanket.  His  little  sisters  were  going  to  bed. 
They  were  whimpering  and  Anton  Egoritsch  silenced 
them  with:  "Hush!  Keep  quiet.  You  will  wake 
Mitenka."  The  boy  shudders  at  the  voice,  at  the 
words.  In  the  darkness  he  imagines  that  very  soon 
his  father  will  cautiously  open  the  door,  come  in  on 
his  toes,  and  say  in  caressing  tones :  "Mitenka,  are  you 
rested,  darling?  Well,  then,  dear,  get  up  and  prac- 
tise; you  know  you  must  surprise  everybody  to-mor- 
row." The  words  terrify  him  and  he  hides  his  head 
fearfully  under  the  coverings.  Oh,  that  cursed  to- 
morrow! Not  one  of  his  playfellows  has  such  a  "to- 
morrow" to  look  forward  to.  Only  grown  people  are 
to  perform.  He  will  be  the  only  child,  and  he  has  to 
appear  at  this  Grand  Concert  because  he  is  something 
wonderful.  Were  it  not  for  this  "to-morrow"  he  could 
play  with  the  boys  in  the  morning,  and  run  and  jump 
and  laugh  as  they  do.  He  could  be  happy  this  even- 
ing at  the  Klaiders',  where  there  is  always  so  much 
brightness  and  heartiness,  where  there  are  so  many 
pleasant  faces  and  such  sounds  of  merry  laughter. 

He  can  see  it  all.  There  is  Klaider's  fair  little  sis- 
ter, whose  Saint's  Day  it  is,  dressed  in  a  white  frock, 
and  there  are  many  other  small  boys  and  girls  all  play- 
ing, chattering,  and  dancing.  Not  one  of  them  is 
forced  to  achieve  success  in  anything,  or  expected  to 
astound  anybody.  To-morrow!  He  will  step  on  the 
platform  looking  pale,  tired,  and  with  that  nagging 
pain  at  his  heart  of  which  no  one  knows,  and  of  which 
no  one  takes  any  heed.  If  he  should  succeed  it  will 


THE  CURSE  OF  FAME  209 

only  make  matters  worse.  He  will  be  taken  to  recep- 
tions, concerts,  dragged  from  city  to  city.  His  father 
has  said  so.  He  dreams  of  it.  Then  he  will  never 
again  be  free  from  the  violin.  The  very  thought  of 
the  violin  fills  him  with  hatred  and  disgust.  It  is  the 
violin  which  has  deprived  him  of  all  that  brings  joy 
to  other  children.  There  was  a  time  when  he  loved 
it,  but  it  has  tormented  the  life  out  of  him,  and  now 
he  detests  it.  He  experiences  an  inexpressible  relief 
at  the  thought  that  it  could  be  shattered,  cut  in  pieces, 
and  flung  into  the  gutter.  He  opens  his  eyes  and 
looks  keenly  in  the  direction  where  the  violin  stands. 
His  room,  and  the  one  next  to  it,  where  everybody  is 
now  asleep,  are  perfectly  dark.  But  what  of  that? 
He  can  discern  that  dreadful  violin.  He  fancies  it 
is  a  living  being,  a  wicked  one,  whose  aim  in  existence 
is  to  crush  the  life  out  of  him  while  he  is  small,  and 
to  give  him  no  chance  to  grow  and  become  a  strong 
man.  Yes,  he  can  see  it  to  its  minutest  detail !  Were 
the  darkness  a  million  times  greater  still  he  would  not 
cease  to  see  it.  Its  outlines  are  too  deeply  impressed 
on  his  memory,  for  has  he  not  passed  every  minute, 
not  spent  in  eating  and  sleeping,  in  its  company?  It 
clung  to  his  arm,  it  rent  his  heart  with  its  monotonous 
squeaking.  And  so  it  will  be  all  his  life.  He  is 
doomed  to  this. 

Mitia  fell  into  a  troubled  sleep.  In  his  dreams 
strange  visions  come  to  him.  At  one  time  an 
enormous  violin  of  impossible  dimensions  with  a 
tiger's  head  moves  toward  him,  opening  its  monstrous 
jaws  to  devour  him.  At  another,  he  beholds  his  own 


210  IGNATIY   POTAPENKO 

violin,  but  it  is  no  longer  in  its  case.  It  has  grown 
fast  to  his  chest,  he  tries  with  all  his  might  to  wrench 
it  off,  but  in  vain;  it  is  part  of  himself,  like  his  arm, 
his  leg,  or  his  head.  And  Anton  Egoritsch  is  pushing 
the  bow  into  his  hand  and  whispering :  "Play,  Mitenka, 
play,  little  dove,  now  it  has  grown  part  of  you,  you 
can't  help  yourself."  He  would  like  to  join  in  the 
games  of  the  little  girls  and  boys  who  are  moving 
around  merrily  in  their  light  holiday  dresses  in  the 
brightly  illumined  room.  But  it  is  impossible,  the 
violin  is  part  of  himself,  and  Anton  Egoritsch  is  lead- 
ing him  on  the  platform.  The  Hall  is  full  of  people, 
great  ladies  and  fine-looking  gentlemen;  and  there  in 
the  front  row  sits  the  Prince  fixing  him  with  his  single 
eyeglass.  A  great  stillness  prevails  in  anticipation  of 
his  playing.  Anton  Egoritsch  is  at  his  back  and 
whispers  in  his  ear:  "Play,  Mitenka,  and  play  to 
astonish  them  all.  Then  there  will  be  fame  and 
wealth."  No,  he  will  not  play.  He  wants  no  fame, 
no  wealth.  All  he  wants  is  freedom — freedom  to  live 
as  other  children  live — to  play,  to  rejoice,  to  laugh — 
"Play,"  whispers  Anton  Egoritsch,  "dearest  little  one, 
play."  "No,  I  won't,  I  won't.  There."  With  both 
hands  Mitia  grasps  the  violin  grown  to  his  breast, 
summons  all  his  strength,  and  with  a  cry  tears  it 
away,  and  with  it  a  portion  of  his  body.  A  river  of 
blood  flows  from  the  wound.  The  audience,  the 
Prince,  all  are  wildly  applauding  and  calling  "Bravo! 
Bravo!" 

Anton   Egoritsch,   beaming   with   gratification,    is 
loudest  in  his  applause.    Onkel  steps  on  the  platform 


THE   CURSE   OF  FAME  211 

and  shouts:  "It  is  I  who  have  made  so  superb  a 
musician  of  him.  His  fame  is  my  fame!" 

"No,"  says  Anton  Egoritsch.  "It  is  my  fame. 
Mine,  mine,  mine."  They  quarrel,  they  fight,  and  no 
one  notices  that  meanwhile  he  is  bleeding  to  death. 

Mitia  awakes  in  terror.  He  clutches  at  his  chest, 
which  aches  unbearably.  The  dawn  is  breaking.  He 
can  faintly  distinguish  the  objects  in  the  room.  The 
first  to  meet  his  eye  is  the  violin  peeping  from  its  open 
case,  the  first  thought  to  strike  his  mind — to-day's 
Grand  Concert.  Success,  universal  admiration,  invi- 
tations, parties,  concerts,  and  at  home  the  never-ending 
practising.  The  more  his  fame  increases,  the  more 
frequent,  unceasing,  will  be  the  demands  of  Anton 
Egoritsch.  "Mitenka,  little  dove,  play  the  twenty- 
third  exercise.  Mr.  Onkel  says — " 

A  feeling  of  despair  comes  over  him.  Life  to  him 
seems  but  a  narrow,  dark  dungeon  from  which  he  is 
released  only  that  he  may  show  the  public  what  prog- 
ress he  has  made — then  he  must  back  to  prison.  The 
violin  is  an  instrument  of  torture,  Anton  Egoritsch 
and  Onkel  are  jailers,  hangmen,  who  watch  his  every 
breath.  He  turns  his  head  toward  the  door,  and  lis- 
tens with  beating  heart.  Seven  o'clock  strikes — he  will 
soon  be  here,  will  bring  the  milk,  will  say :  "Mitenka, 
play,  apply  yourself,  little  dove.  To-day  is  the  Grand 
Concert." 

He  hears  a  match  struck,  he  hears  the  flip-flop  of 
slippers,  the  jailer  is  coming!  No,  he  has  gone  to  the 
kitchen  for  the  milk.  In  half  an  hour  he  will  be  here, 
then  the  violin,  the  practising,  the  endless,  never  vary- 


212  IGNATIY   POTAPENKO 

ing  scraping  for  ever  and  ever — and  all  for  the  sake 
of  a  something  called  fame.  Mitia  gets  up  and  presses 
his  teeth  into  his  lower  lip  till  the  blood  comes.  "Wait, 
dear  Papa,  wait.  I  will  arrange  a  fame  for  you."  He 
is  as  pale  as  his  sheet.  His  eyes  are  wandering  and 
full  of  tears.  His  frail  body  is  shaking  with  fever. 
He  has  but  one  thought  in  his  mind:  "I  must  be 
quick — in  half  an  hour  the  jailer  will  be  here."  He 
hastens  his  actions.  With  trembling  hands  he  grasps 
his  leather  belt  and  fastens  one  end  to  the  hook  which 
holds  the  towel.  Then  he  makes  a  loop  and  pauses. 
He  signs  himself  with  the  cross  ardently  and  firmly. 
Big  tears  course  down  his  cheeks  unrestrainedly.  He 
is  intensely  sorry  for  some  one.  Somebody  beckons 
to  him — is  it  his  mother  or  his  little  sisters  ?  But  the 
jailer  is  coming.  There  is  not  a  moment  to  lose. 
Again  he  makes  the  sign  of  the  cross,  closes  his  eyes, 
and  puts  his  head  into  the  noose. 

At  ten  o'clock,  on  the  morning  of  the  same  day,  a 
woman  rushed  into  the  Conservatory.  Her  hair  was 
disheveled,  and  in  spite  of  the  cold  she  was  very  thinly 
clad.  She  cried,  screamed,  wrung  her  hands,  but 
could  find  no  words  to  give  expression  to  her  sorrow. 
She  was  taken  to  the  Director,  who  placed  her  in  a 
chair  and  said : 

"Calm  yourself,  Madam,  and  tell  us  what  is  the 
matter.  We  will  do  all  we  can  for  you." 

But  he  felt  ashamed  of  these  politely  sympathetic 
words  when  he  finally  succeeded  in  learning  that  the 
woman  was  the  mother  of  Mitia  Spiridonoff,  and  that 


THE  CURSE  OF  FAME  213 

the  hope  and  future  pride  of  the  Conservatory  had  that 
morning  hanged  himself  in  his  room  by  a  leather  belt. 
He  was  further  shocked  to  learn  that  Anton  Ego- 
ritsch,  that  honorable  elderly  man,  whom  they  had  all 
so  often  seen  leading  his  son  by  the  hand,  had  lost  his 
reason,  that  he  neither  saw  nor  heard,  but  sat  hugging 
Mitia's  violin,  kissing  it  and  saying :  "This  is  my  son, 
my  son.  He  will  make  us  famous." 

When  Onkel  heard  of  the  catastrophe,  he  staggered 
and  fell  back  heavily  in  his  chair.  He  narrowly  es- 
caped a  paralytic  stroke.  Through  Mitia's  death  the 
greatest  chance  of  his  life  to  acquire  fame  was  lost. 

In  half  an  hour  the  Conservatory  was  in  a  state  of 
horror.  The  terrible  news  had  rapidly  spread  from 
mouth  to  mouth.  The  ladies  cried,  fainted,  or  went 
into  hysterics. 

The  following  day  the  entire  Conservatory  was  at 
the  funeral  of  Mitia  Spiridonoff.  His  playfellows  car- 
ried the  small  coffin,  followed  by  his  grief-stricken 
mother  and  little  sisters.  Anton  Egoritsch  alone  was 
not  there.  They  had  been  compelled  to  send  him  to 
the  asylum.  He  had  broken  into  ravings  and  cursings 
by  Mitia's  coffin. 


A  WORK   OP   ART 

AND 

THE    SLANDERER 


BY  ANTON   PAVLOVITCH   CHEKHOV 


Chekhov,  who  has  been  called  the  Russian 
De  Maupassant,  was  born  of  humble  parents 
in  the  suburbs  of  Moscow  in  1860,  and  died  of 
consumption  in  1904.  Though  he  received  the 
degree  of  M.D.,  he  never  practised  medicine. 
His  was  a  nature  far  more  poetical  than  that 
of  De  Maupassant,  and  it  would  perhaps  be 
nearer  right  to  call  him  a  Russian  Stevenson, 
for,  like  him,  he  had  a  lifelong  struggle  against 
illness,  and,  like  him,  illness  and  suffering  mel- 
lowed and  sweetened  his  character.  Chekhov 
was  an  artist  to  his  finger-tips,  in  a  sense 
and  to  a  degree  beyond  that  of  any  of  his 
Russian  predecessors. 


A  WORK  OF  ART 

THE     STORY     OF     A     GIFT 

BY    ANTON   CHEKHOV 

AEXANDER  SMIRNOFF,  the  only  son  of  his 
mother,  holding  in  his  hand  some  object  care- 
fully wrapped  in  a  newspaper,  an  angelic  smile 
on  his  youthful  face,  entered  the  consulting-room  of 
Dr.  Koshelkoff. 

"Ah,  dear  youth!"  exclaimed  the  doctor,  "how  are 
you  ?  What  is  the  good  news  ?" 

Confused  and  excited,  the  young  man  replied : 

"Doctor,  my  mother  is  sending  her  regards —  I 
am  her  only  son,  you  know —  You  saved  my  life. 
Your  skill —  We  hardly  know  how  to  thank  you !" 

"Say  no  more,  dear  boy !"  said  the  doctor,  beaming 
with  delight.  "I  have  only  done  my  duty.  Anybody 
else  would  have  done  the  same." 

"I  am  the  only  son  of  my  mother.  We  are  poor, 
and,  of  course,  can  not  repay  you  for  your  labors  as 
you  have  deserved — and  we  feel  it  deeply.  At  the 
same  time  my  mother — I  am  her  only  son,  doctor 
— my  mother  humbly  begs  you  to  accept  as  a  token 
of  our  gratitude  a  little  statuette  she  values  very 
highly.  It  is  a  piece  of  antique  bronze,  and  a  rare 
work  of  art." 

Translated  by  Archibald  J.  Wolfe.    Copyright,  1905,  by  the  Short  Stories  Co., 
Limited. 


218  ANTON   CHEKHOV 

"My  good  fellow — "  commenced  the  physician. 

"No,  doctor,  you  must  not  refuse/'  continued  Alex- 
ander, unfolding  his  parcel.  "You  will  deeply  offend 
mother  and  myself,  too.  It  is  a  little  beauty.  A  rare 
antique.  We  have  kept  it  in  memory  of  father,  who 
was  a  dealer  in  antique  bronzes.  My  mother  and 
myself  continue  the  business." 

Finally  the  youth  succeeded  in  freeing  his  present 
from  its  wrappings,  and  placed  it  on  the  table  with 
an  air  of  great  solemnity.  It  was  a  moderately  tall 
candelabrum  of  antique  bronze  and  of  artistic  work- 
manship. It  represented  two  female  figures  somewhat 
scantily  attired,  and  bearing  an  air  of  frivolity  to 
describe  which  I  have  neither  the  required  daring  nor 
the  temperament.  The  figures  smiled  coquettishly, 
and  looked  as  if  they  were  ready  to  jump  on  the 
floor  and  to  engage  in  some  wild  frolic,  were  they 
not  restrained  by  the  task  of  supporting  the  candle 
holder. 

The  doctor  regarded  his  present  for  a  few  moments 
in  silence,  then  scratched  his  head  and  coughed  irreso- 
lutely. 

"A  beautiful  article,  to  be  sure,"  he  finally  said. 
"But  you  know — what  shall  I  say  ?  Why,  it  is  hardly 
the  thing,  you  know.  Talk  of  deshabille!  This  is  be- 
yond the  bounds  of  propriety.  The  devil !" 

"W-w-why?" 

"Now,  how  could  I  put  a  thing  like  that  on  my 
table?  It  will  corrupt  my  residence." 

"Doctor,  you  surprise  me/'  answered  Alexander, 
with  an  offended  tone.  "What  queer  views  of  art! 


Anton  Chekho\ 


A  WORK   OF  ART  219 

This  is  a  work  of  art!  Look  at  it!  What  beauty, 
what  delicacy  of  workmanship!  It  fills  the  soul  with 
joy  merely  to  look  at  it;  it  brings  tears  to  one's 
eyes.  Observe  the  movement,  the  atmosphere,  the 
expression !" 

"I  fully  appreciate  it,  my  boy/'  interrupted  the 
physician.  "But  you  know  I  am  a  man  of  family.  I 
have  children.  A  mother-in-law.  Ladies  call  here." 

"Of  course,  if  you  look  at  it  from  the  point  of  view 
of  the  common  herd,  you  might  regard  it  in  a  different 
light.  But  I  beg  of  you,  rise  above  the  mob.  Your 
refusal  would  hurt  the  feelings  of  my  mother  and  of 
myself.  I  am  her  only  son.  You  saved  my  life.  We 
are  asking  you  to  accept  something  we  hold  very  dear. 
I  only  deplore  the  fact  that  we  have  no  companion 
piece  to  it." 

"Thank  you,  dear  fellow,  and  thank  your  mother. 
I  see  that  I  can  not  reason  with  you.  But  you 
should  have  thought  of  my  children,  you  know,  and 
the  ladies.  But  I  fear  you  will  not  listen  to  argu- 
ments." 

"No  use  arguing,  doctor,"  replied  the  grateful  pa- 
tient, made  happy  by  the  implied  acceptance.  "You 
put  it  right  here,  next  to  the  Japanese  vase.  What 
a  pity  I  have  not  the  pair.  What  a  pity !" 

When  his  caller  departed  the  doctor  thoughtfully 
regarded  his  unwelcome  present.  He  scratched  his 
head  and  pondered. 

"It  is  an  exquisite  thing,  without  doubt.  It  would 
be  a  pity  to  throw  it  into  the  street.  It  is  quite  im- 
possible to  kave  it  here,  though.  What  a  dilemma  to 


220  ANTON   CHEKHOV 

be  in.     To  whom  could  I  give  it?    How  to  get  rid 
of  it?" 

Finally  he  bethought  himself  of  Ukhoff,  a  dear 
friend  of  his  school  days,  and  a  rising  lawyer,  who 
had  just  successfully  represented  him  in  some  trifling 
case. 

"Good,"  said  the  doctor.  "As  a  friend  he  refused 
to  charge  me  a  fee,  and  it  is  perfectly  proper  that  I 
should  make  him  a  present.  Besides,  he  is  a  single 
man  and  tremendously  sporty." 

Losing  no  time,  the  doctor  carefully  wrapped  up 
the  candlestick  and  drove  to  Ukhoff. 

"There,  old  chap,"  he  said  to  the  lawyer,  whom  he 
happily  found  at  home;  "there  I  have  come  to  thank 
you  for  that  little  favor.  You  refused  to  charge  me 
a  fee,  but  you  must  accept  this  present  in  token  of  my 
gratitude.  Look — what  a  beauty!" 

On  seeing  the  present  the  attorney  was  transported 
with  delight. 

"This  beats  everything!"  he  fairly  howled.  "Hang 
it  all,  what  inventive  genius!  Exquisite,  immense. 
Where  did  you  get  such  a  little  gem?" 

Having  expressed  his  delight,  the  lawyer  anxiously 
looked  at  his  friend  and  said : 

"But,  you  know,  you  must  not  leave  this  thing  here. 
I  can  not  accept  it." 

"Why?"  gasped  the  doctor. 

"You  know  my  mother  calls  here,  clients,  I  would 
not  dare  to  look  my  servants  in  the  face.  Take  it 
away." 

"Never!     You  must   not  refuse,"  exclaimed  the 


A  WORK  OF  ART  221 

physician  with  the  energy  of  despair.  "Look  at  the 
workmanship !  Look  at  the  expression !  I  will  not  lis- 
ten to  any  refusals.  I  will  feel  insulted." 

With  these  words  the  doctor  hurried  out  of  the 
house. 

"A  white  elephant,"  the  lawyer  mumbled  sadly, 
while  the  doctor,  rubbing  his  hands  with  glee,  drove 
home  with  an  expression  of  relief. 

The  attorney  studied  his  present  at  length  and  won- 
dered what  to  do  with  it. 

"It  is  simply  delicious,  but  I  can  not  keep  it.  It 
would  be  vandalism  to  throw  it  away,  and  the  only 
thing  to  do  is  to  give  it  away.  But  to  whom  ? 

"I  have  it  now,"  he  fairly  shouted.  "The  very 
thing,  and  how  appropriate.  I  will  take  it  to  Shash- 
kin,  the  comedian.  The  rascal  is  a  connoisseur  in 
such  things.  And  this  is  the  night  of  his  jubilee." 

In  the  evening  the  candelabrum,  carefully  wrapped, 
was  taken  to  Shashkin's  dressing-room  by  a  messen- 
ger boy.  The  whole  evening  that  dressing-room  was 
besieged  by  a  crowd  of  men  who  came  to  view  the 
present.  An  incessant  roar  of  delight  was  kept  up 
within,  sounding  like  the  joyous  neighing  of  many 
horses.  Whenever  an  actress  approached  the  door 
leading  to  the  sanctum,  and  curiously  knocked,  Shash- 
kin's hoarse  voice  was  heard  in  reply : 

"No,  my  dear,  you  can't  come  in,  I  am  not  fully 
dressed."  .: 

After  the  performance  Shashkin  shrugged  his 
shoulders  and  said: 

"What  on  earth  shall  I  do  with  this  disreputable 


222  A  WORK  OF  ART 

thing?  My  landlady  would  not  tolerate  it  in  the 
house.  Here  actresses  call  to  see  me.  This  is  not 
a  photograph,  you  can't  hide  it  in  the  drawer." 

The  hair-dresser  listened  sympathetically  while  ar- 
ranging the  comedian's  hair. 

"Why  don't  you  sell  it?"  he  finally  asked  the  actor. 
"A  neighbor  of  mine,  an  old  lady,  deals  in  such  things, 
and  she  will  pay  you  a  good  price  for  it.  An  old 
woman  by  the  name  of  Smirnoff,  the  whole  town 
knows  her." 

Shashkin  obeyed. 

Two  days  later  Dr.  Koshelkoff  sat  peacefully  in  his 
study,  enjoying  his  pipe  and  thinking  of  things  medi- 
cal, when  suddenly  the  door  of  his  room  flew  open, 
and  Alexander  Smirnoff  burst  upon  his  sight.  His 
face  beamed  with  joy,  he  fairly  shone,  and  his  whole 
body  breathed  inexpressible  content. 

In  his  hands  he  held  an  object  wrapped  in  a  news- 
paper. 

"Doctor,"  he  began  breathlessly,  "imagine  my  joy! 
What  good  fortune !  Luckily  for  you  my  mother  has 
succeeded  in  obtaining  a  companion  piece  to  your  can- 
delabrum. You  now  have  the  pair  complete.  Mother 
is  so  happy.  I  am  her  only  son,  you  know.  You 
saved  my  life." 

Trembling  with  joy  and  with  excess  of  gratitude, 
young  Smirnoff  placed  the  candelabrum  before  the 
doctor.  The  physician  opened  his  mouth,  attempted 
to  say  something,  but  the  power  of  speech  failed  him 
— and  he  said  nothing. 


THE    SLANDERER 

BY  ANTON    CHEKHOV 

SERGEY  KAPITONICH  AKHINEYEV,  the 
teacher  of  calligraphy,  gave  his  daughter  Na- 
talya  in  marriage  to  the  teacher  of  history  and 
geography,  Ivan  Petrovich  Loshadinikh.  The  wed- 
ding feast  went  on  swimmingly.  They  sang,  played, 
and  danced  in  the  parlor.  Waiters,  hired  for  the  oc- 
casion from  the  club,  bustled  about  hither  and  thither 
like  madmen,  in  black  frock  coats  and  soiled  white 
neckties.  A  loud  noise  of  voices  smote  the  air.  From 
the  outside  people  looked  in  at  the  windows — their 
social  standing  gave  them  no  right  to  enter. 

Just  at  midnight  the  host,  Akhineyev,  made  his  way 
to  the  kitchen  to  see  whether  everything  was  ready 
for  the  supper.  The  kitchen  was  filled  with  smoke 
from  the  floor  to  the  ceiling;  the  smoke  reeked  with 
the  odors  of  geese,  ducks,  and  many  other  things. 
Victuals  and  beverages  were  scattered  about  on  two 
tables  in  artistic  disorder.  Marfa,  the  cook,  a  stout, 
red-faced  woman,  was  busying  herself  near  the  loaded 
tables. 

"Show  me  the  sturgeon,  dear,"  said  Akhineyev,  rub- 
bing his  hands  and  licking  his  lips.  "What  a  fine  odor ! 
I  could  just  devour  the  whole  kitchen !  Well,  let  me 
see  the  sturgeon!" 

Translated  by  Herman  Bernstein.     Copyright,  zoox,  by  the  Globe  and  Com- 
mercial Advertiser. 

(223) 


224  ANTON  CHEKHOV 

Marfa  walked  up  to  one  of  the  benches  and  care- 
fully lifted  a  greasy  newspaper.  Beneath  that  paper, 
in  a  huge  dish,  lay  a  big  fat  sturgeon,  amid  capers, 
olives,  and  carrots.  Akhineyev  glanced  at  the  sturgeon 
and  heaved  a  sigh  of  relief.  His  face  became  radiant, 
his  eyes  rolled.  He  bent  down,  and,  smacking  his 
lips,  gave  vent  to  a  sound  like  a  creaking  wheel.  He 
stood  a  while,  then  snapped  his  ringers  for  pleasure, 
and  smacked  his  lips  once  more. 

"Bah!  The  sound  of  a  hearty  kiss.  Whom  have 
you  been  kissing  there,  Marfusha?"  some  one's  voice 
was  heard  from  the  adjoining  room,  and  soon  the 
closely  cropped  head  of  Vankin,  the  assistant  school 
instructor,  appeared  in  the  doorway.  "Whom  have 
you  been  kissing  here  ?  A-a-ah !  Very  good !  Sergey 
Kapitonich !  A  fine  old  man  indeed !  With  the  female 
sex  tete-a-tete !" 

"I  wasn't  kissing  at  all,"  said  Akhineyev,  confused ; 
"who  told  you,  you  fool?  I  only — smacked  my  lips 
on  account  of — in  consideration  of  my  pleasure — at 
the  sight  of  the  fish." 

"Tell  that  to  some  one  else,  not  to  me!"  exclaimed 
Vankin,  whose  face  expanded  into  a  broad  smile  as 
he  disappeared  behind  the  door.  Akhineyev  blushed. 

"The  devil  knows  what  may  be  the  outcome  of  this !" 
he  thought.  "He'll  go  about  tale-bearing  now,  the 
rascal.  He'll  disgrace  me  before  the  whole  town,  the 
brute!" 

Akhineyev  entered  the  parlor  timidly  and  cast  fur- 
tive glances  to  see  what  Vankin  was  doing.  Vankin 
stood  near  the  piano  and,  deftly  bending  down,  whis- 


THE   SLANDERER  225 

pered  something  to  the  inspector's  sister-in-law,  who 
was  laughing. 

"That's  about  me!"  thought  Akhineyev.  "About 
me,  the  devil  take  him !  She  believes  him,  she's  laugh- 
ing. My  God !  No,  that  mustn't  be  left  like  that.  No. 
I'll  have  to  fix  it  so  that  no  one  shall  believe  him.  I'll 
speak  to  all  of  them,  and  he'll  remain  a  foolish  gossip 
in  the  end." 

Akhineyev  scratched  his  head,  and,  still  confused, 
walked  up  to  Padekoi. 

"I  was  in  the  kitchen  a  little  while  ago,  arranging 
things  there  for  the  supper,"  he  said  to  the  French- 
man. "You  like  fish,  I  know,  and  I  have  a  sturgeon 
just  so  big.  About  two  yards.  Ha,  ha,  ha!  Yes, 
by  the  way,  I  have  almost  forgotten.  There  was  a 
real  anecdote  about  that  sturgeon  in  the  kitchen.  I 
entered  the  kitchen  a  little  while  ago  and  wanted  to 
examine  the  food.  I  glanced  at  the  sturgeon  and  for 
pleasure,  I  smacked  my  lips — it  was  so  piquant !  And 
just  at  that  moment  the  fool  Vankin  entered  and  says 
— ha,  ha,  ha — and  says:  'A-a!  A-a-ah!  You  have 
been  kissing  here?' — with  Marfa;  just  think  of  it — 
with  the  cook !  What  a  piece  of  invention,  that  block- 
head. The  woman  is  ugly,  she  looks  like  a  monkey, 
and  he  says  we  were  kissing.  What  a  queer  fellow!" 

"Who's  a  queer  fellow?"  asked  Tarantulov,  as  he 
approached  them. 

"I  refer  to  Vankin.    I  went  out  into  the  kitchen — " 

The  story  of  Marfa  and  the  sturgeon  was  repeated. 

^That  makes  me  laugh.  What  a  queer  fellow  he 
is.  In  my  opinion  it  is  more  pleasant  to  kiss  the  dog 


226  ANTON   CHEKHOV 

than  to  kiss  Marfa,"  added  Akhineyev,  and,  turning 
around,  he  noticed  Mzda. 

"We  have  been  speaking  about  Vankin,"  he  said  to 
him.  "What  a  queer  fellow.  He  entered  the  kitchen 
and  noticed  me  standing  beside  Marfa,  and  immedi- 
ately he  began  to  invent  different  stories.  *  What  ?'  he 
says,  'you  have  been  kissing  each  other!'  He  was 
drunk,  so  he  must  have  been  dreaming.  'And  I,'  I 
said,  'I  would  rather  kiss  a  duck  than  kiss  Marfa.  And 
I  have  a  wife/  said  I,  'you  fool.'  He  made  me  appear 
ridiculous." 

"Who  made  you  appear  ridiculous?"  inquired  the 
teacher  of  religion,  addressing  Akhineyev. 

"Vankin.  I  was  standing  in  the  kitchen,  you  know, 
and  looking  at  the  sturgeon — "  And  so  forth.  In 
about  half  an  hour  all  the  guests  knew  the  story  about 
Vankin  and  the  sturgeon. 

"Now  let  him  tell,"  thought  Akhineyev,  rubbing  his 
hands.  "Let  him  do  it.  He'll  start  to  tell  them,  and 
they'll  cut  him  short:  'Don't  talk  nonsense,  you  fool! 
We  know  all  about  it.'  " 

And  Akhineyev  felt  so  much  appeased  that,  for  joy, 
he  drank  four  glasses  of  brandy  over  and  above  his  fill. 
Having  escorted  his  daughter  to  her  room,  he  went  to 
his  own  and  soon  slept  the  sleep  of  an  innocent  child, 
and  on  the  following  day  he  no  longer  remembered 
the  story  of  the  sturgeon.  But,  alas !  Man  proposes 
and  God  disposes.  The  evil  tongue  does  its  wicked 
work,  and  even  Akhineyev's  cunning  did  not  do  him 
any  good.  One  week  later,  on  a  Wednesday,  after 
the  third  lesson,  when  Akhineyev  stood  in  the  teachers' 


THE   SLANDERER  227 

room  and  discussed  the  vicious  inclinations  of  the  pupil 
Visyekin,  the  director  approached  him,  and,  beckoning 
to  him,  called  him  aside. 

"See  here,  Sergey  Kapitonich,"  said  the  director. 
"Pardon  me.  It  isn't  my  affair,  yet  I  must  make  it 
clear  to  you,  nevertheless.  It  is  my  duty —  You  see, 
rumors  are  on  foot  that  you  are  on  intimate  terms 
with  that  woman — with  your  cook —  It  isn't  my 
affair,  but —  You  may  be  on  intimate  terms  with  her, 
you  may  kiss  her —  You  may  do  whatever  you  like, 
but,  please,  don't  do  it  so  openly !  I  beg  of  you.  Don't 
forget  that  you  are  a  pedagogue." 

Akhineyev  stood  as  though  frozen  and  petrified. 
Like  one  stung  by  a  swarm  of  bees  and  scalded  with 
boiling  water,  he  went  home.  On  his  way  it  seemed 
to  him  as  though  the  whole  town  stared  at  him  as  at 
one  besmeared  with  tar —  At  home  new  troubles 
awaited  him. 

"Why  don't  you  eat  anything?"  asked  his  wife  at 
their  dinner.  "What  are  you  thinking  about?  Are 
you  thinking  about  Cupid,  eh?  You  are  longing  for 
Marfushka.  I  know  everything  already,  you  Mahomet. 
Kind  people  have  opened  my  eyes,  you  barbarian!" 

And  she  slapped  him  on  the  cheek. 

He  rose  from  the  table,  and  staggering,  without  cap 
or  coat,  directed  his  footsteps  toward  Vankin.  The 
latter  was  at  home. 

"You  rascal !"  he  said  to  Vankin.  "Why  have  you 
covered  me  with  mud  before  the  whole  world?  Why 
have  you  slandered  me?" 

"How ;  what  slander  ?    What  are  you  inventing  ?" 


228  THE   SLANDERER 

"And  who  told  everybody  that  I  was  kissing  Marfa? 
Not  you,  perhaps  ?  Not  you,  you  murderer  ?" 

Vankin  began  to  blink  his  eyes,  and  all  the  fibres  of 
his  face  began  to  quiver.  He  lifted  his  eyes  toward 
the  image  and  ejaculated: 

"May  God  punish  me,  may  I  lose  my  eyesight  and 
die,  if  I  said  even  a  single  word  about  you  to  any  one ! 
May  I  have  neither  house  nor  home !" 

Vankin's  sincerity  admitted  of  no  doubt.  It  was 
evident  that  it  was  not  he  who  had  gossiped. 

"But  who  was  it?  Who?"  Akhineyev  asked  him- 
self, going  over  in  his  mind  all  his  acquaintances,  and 
striking  his  chest.  "Who  was  it?" 


FAUST 


BY   EUGENE   NIKOLAIEVITCH    CHIRIKOV 


Chirikov  was  born  in  1864.  He  comes  of  a 
noble  family  from  the  Province  of  Smibirsk. 
Though  he  began  to  write  while  still  a  law 
student  and  worked  a  long  time  for  the  pro- 
vincial press,  his  real  literary  career  dates 
from  1893. 

In  later  years  Chirikov  abandoned  his  di- 
dactic themes  and  devoted  himself  entirely  to 
purely  psychological  studies  of  provincial  life 
which  he  knows  so  well  and  of  which  "Faust " 
is  a  good  example. 

One  of  his  plays,  "The  Chosen  People/'  was 
produced  in  America  by  the  Orleniev  Company 
of  Russian  actors,  of  which  Mme.  Naztmova 
was  a  member. 


FAUST 

BY    EUGENE    CHIRIKOV 

WHEN  Ivan  Mikhailovich  awoke  one  morn- 
ing, the  whole  household  was  already  long 
up,  and  from  the  distance  came  the  ring- 
ing voices  of  the  children,  the  rattling  of  the  breakfast 
dishes,  the  commanding  voice  of  Maria  Petrovna,  his 
mother-in-law,  and  from  the  drawing-room  the  chirp- 
ing of  the  canary,  which  sounded  to  his  ears  like  a 
policeman's  whistle.  He  did  not  feel  like  getting  up 
— he  felt  like  lying  a  bit  longer,  too  lazy  to  dress, 
therefore  he  smoked  a  few  cigarettes  before  getting 
up  strength  for  the  ordeal. 

He  usually  rose  dissatisfied  and  out  of  sorts,  because 
he  did  not  much  fancy  the  rules  of  life  by  which  one 
had  to  hurry  with  ablutions,  toilet,  breakfast,  and  then 
go  to  the  bank. 

"Go  and  see  if  papa  has  awakened  yet!'*  he  heard 
his  wife's  voice,  and  a  moment  afterward  a  round, 
little  head  was  thrust  through  the  doorway,  and  a 
child's  treble  chimed  in: 

"Papa!    Are  you  up?" 

"I  am,  I  am !"  Ivan  Mikhailovich  replied,  ill-pleased, 
and  angrily  rinsed  his  mouth,  gurgling,  sputtering,  and 
groaning. 

At  the  breakfast  table  he  sat  sulky  and  preoccu- 

Translated  by  Lizzie  B.  Gorin.    Copyright,  1907,  by  P.  F.  Collier  &  Son. 
ii— VOL.  i  (231) 


232  EUGENE  CHIRIKOV 

pied,  as  if  wholly  taken  up  with  some  very  important 
thoughts,  and  did  not  deign  to  pay  the  least  attention 
to  any  one.  His  wife,  casually  glancing  up  at  him, 
thought :  "He  must  have  lost  at  cards  at  the  club  last 
night,  and  does  not  know  now  where  to  get  the  money 
to  pay  up." 

At  ten,  Ivan  Mikhailovich  went  to  the  bank,  from 
which  he  returned  at  four,  tired,  hungry,  and  out  of 
sorts.  Sitting  down  to  the  table,  he  tucked  his  napkin 
under  his  chin,  and  ate  with  a  loud  smacking  of  the 
lips;  after  he  had  filled  himself,  he  invariably  grew 
good-natured,  and  said:  "Well,  now  we  shall  take  a 
little  nap,"  and  went  into  his  study,  in  which  were  dis- 
played a  bearskin,  a  pair  of  reindeer  antlers,  and  a 
rifle  from  which  he  had  never  fired  a  shot.  There 
he  coughed  and  spat  for  a  long  time,  and  afterward 
snored  so  loudly  that  the  children  feared  to  approach 
too  near  the  door  of  the  study,  and  when  the  nurse 
wished  to  stop  a  fight  or  a  quarrel  between  them,  she 
would  say :  "There — the  bear  is  asleep  in  papa's  room 
— I  will  let  the  bear  out  after  you!" 

Ivan  Mikhailovich  was  usually  awakened  about 
eight  in  the  evening,  when  he  would  once  more  grow 
angry  and  shout :  "Yes,  yes,  I  hear,"  immediately  fall- 
ing asleep  again.  Afterward  he  came  out  of  the  study 
puffy  and  heavy-eyed,  looking  indeed  very  much  like 
a  bear,  and  began  to  shout  in  a  husky  voice : 

"I  would  like  to  know  why  I  was  not  awakened 
in  time?" 

"You  were,  and  you  replied,  'I  hear!'  " 

"I  did!    Well,  what  of  it?    A  person  is  not  sup- 


FAUST  233 

posed  to  be  responsible  for  what  he  says  when  half 
asleep.  Is  the  samovar  ready  ?" 

Then  he  went  into  the  dining-room,  and  sat  down 
to  the  tea-table  with  his  paper — and  again  with  the 
appearance  of  a  man  whose  thoughts  are  wholly  occu- 
pied with  very  serious  and  important  matters.  His 
wife,  Xenia  Pavlovna,  poured  out  the  tea,  and  he 
could  hardly  see  her  face  from  behind  the  samovar. 
Maria  Petrovna  sat  at  the  other  end  of  the  table,  with 
a  child's  stocking  in  her  hand,  which  she  was  forever 
darning. 

They  were  generally  silent,  only  rarely  exchang- 
ing laconic  questions  and  answers:  "More  tea?" — 
"Please" — "Again  there  is  no  lemon?" — 'Why,  it  is 
lying  before  your  very  nose!" 

After  tea  Ivan  Mikhailovich  went  to  his  club,  where 
he  played  cards,  after  which  he  had  his  supper  there, 
and  coming  home  about  two  past  midnight,  he  found 
his  wife  already  sleeping.  Only  Maria  Petrovna  was 
still  up,  and  she  usually  met  him  in  deshabille,  with 
an  old  wrap  thrown  over  her  shoulders,  her  hair  in 
disorder,  and  with  sighs.  Ivan  Mikhailovich  under- 
stood but  too  well  the  hidden  meaning  of  these  sighs : 
they  expressed  silent  reproaches  and  indirect  disap- 
proval of  his  conduct.  Therefore,  while  taking  off 
his  rubbers,  Ivan  Mikhailovich  said :  "Please  spare  me 
your  sighs!" 

Xenia  Pavlovna  never  reproached  her  husband. 
She  had  long  ago  become  accustomed  to  either  Ivan 
Mikhailovich's  snoring  or  being  away.  Only  Maria 
Petrovna  could  not  become  resigned  to  it. 


234  .  EUGENE  CHIRIKOV 

"What  kind  of  a  husband  is  he!  All  you  see  of 
him  is  his  dressing-gown  on  the  peg,"  she  said. 

"Oh,  don't  say  that,  mother.  All  husbands  are  like 
that,"  remarked  Xenia  Pavlovna,  but  her  face  became 
sad  and  clouded,  and  at  last  a  sort  of  concentrated 
musing  settled  upon  it.  Walking  up  and  down  the 
salon  in  the  twilight,  she  would  keep  thinking  about 
something  or  other,  and  sing  in  a  low,  sweet  voice : 
"Beyond  the  distant  horizon  there  is  a  happy  land." 

Then  she  shook  her  head  with  a  jerk  and  went  into 
the  nursery.  Here  she  played  dolls  with  the  children, 
romped  about  with  them,  and  told  them  fairy-tales 
about  Sister  Alenushka  and  Brother  Ivanushka. 

The  older  boy  was  very  like  his  father  before  the 
latter  got  into  the  habit  of  snoring  and  spitting  and 
appearing  before  Xenia  Pavlovna  in  his  shirtsleeves. 
Gazing  at  this  boy  of  hers,  Xenia  Pavlovna  was  car- 
ried away  into  the  past,  and  the  dreams  of  her  faraway 
youth,  dimmed  and  partly  obscured  by  time,  drove  out 
of  her  heart  the  feeling  of  emptiness,  oppressive  ennui, 
and  dissatisfaction. 

"Mama!  Mamochka!  Now  tell  us  about  Baba 
Yaga!  Good?" 

"Well,  very  good.  Once  there  was  a  Baba  Yaga, 
with  a  bony  leg — " 

"Did  she  snore?"  asked  the  little  girl,  and  her  blue 
eyes  opened  wide,  resting  with  fear  and  expectation 
on  her  mother's  face.  Xenia  Pavlovna  broke  out  in  a 
hearty  laugh,  caught  her  girlie  in  her  arms,  and,  kiss- 
ing her,  forgot  everything  else  in  the  world. 

About   twice  a   month  they   received.     All  their 


FAUST  235 

guests  were  sedate,  respectable,  and  dull;  people 
whose  whole  life  ran  smoothly,  monotonously,  with- 
out a  hitch,  through  the  same  deep  rut;  they  were 
all  very  tiresome,  and  loved  to  tell  the  same  things 
over  and  over,  and  behave  and  act  as  if  by  long- 
established  rule.  First  they  sat  in  the  drawing-room 
and  spoke  of  their  dwellings,  of  the  weather,  and  while 
Xenia  Pavlovna  entertained  them  with  conversation, 
her  mother  set  the  tea  things,  and  while  she  filled  the 
dishes  with  preserves  she  looked  apprehensively  into 
the  jars  and  muttered :  "It's  lasting  so  well  that  fresh 
fruit  is  not  even  to  be  thought  of.  The  Lord  grant 
it  lasts  till  Easter."  And  putting  the  sugar  from 
the  large  paper  bag  into  the  cut-glass  sugar-bowl,  she 
thought  aloud :  "Twenty  pounds,  indeed !  Why,  even 
forty  would  not  suffice!" 

"Please  come  and  have  some  tea!"  she  said  invit- 
ingly, with  an  amiable,  pleasant  smile  on  her  face. 
In  the  dining-room,  where  tea  was  served,  they  all 
took  their  places  in  a  staid  and  dignified  manner, 
making  fun  of  those  who  were  unlucky  enough  to  get 
places  at  the  table  corners,  telling  them  that  they  would 
not  marry  for  seven  years ;  and  playing  with  their  tea- 
spoons, they  said :  "Merci,"  and  "Ach,  if  you  will  be 
so  kind!"  And  then  they  once  more  returned  to  the 
talk  about  their  apartments,  the  high  price  of  provi- 
sions, and  the  ailments  of  the  little  ones.  Tea  finished, 
they  repaired  to  the  drawing-room,  in  which  the  little 
card-tables  had  already  been  placed,  and  provided  with 
candles,  cards,  and  chalk;  everybody  became  livelier, 
and  the  oppressive  frame  of  mind,  under  which  people 


236  EUGENE  CHIRIKOV 

always  labor  when  they  are  called  upon  to  do  some- 
thing they  had  not  come  to  do,  was  dispelled. 

The  gentlemen  and  ladies  sat  down  at  the  tables, 
quarreled,  disputed,  reproached  one  another,  and  broke 
out  simultaneously  into  peals  of  merriment;  in  the 
main,  they  all  seemed  now  the  most  happy  people  in 
the  world.  They  were  so  much  engrossed  with  the 
play  that  they  resembled  maniacs,  who  could  with 
difficulty  understand  if  an  outsider,  there  by  some 
chance,  not  playing  cards,  and  therefore  suffering  with 
ennui,  spoke  to  them  about  some  outside  matter. 

Xenia  Pavlovna  did  not  play:  she  and  her  mother 
were  wholly  taken  up  with  the  preparations  for  sup- 
per, while  the  guests  were  occupied  with  the  whist- 
tables.  She  and  Maria  Petrovna  quarreled  a  little  on 
such  occasions,  but  always  managed  to  hide  their  dif- 
ferences from  their  guests. 

When  supper  was  announced  all  the  guests  sprang 
from  their  seats,  pushed  back  their  chairs,  and  laugh- 
ingly went  to  the  table.  Only  two  of  the  most  en- 
thusiastic would  remain  in  their  places,  and  continue 
to  wrangle  and  to  gesticulate  over  the  Knave  of 
Spades,  seeming  not  to  care  whether  they  had  their 
supper  or  not,  if  only  they  could  prove  to  each  other 
the  truth  of  their  own  assertions.  The  master  of 
the  house  would  put  his  arm  about  the  waist  of  each 
and  carry  them  off. 

"Well,  let  us  have  a  tiny  one!"  Ivan  Mikhailovich 
generally  began.  A  few  "tiny"  ones  were  drunk  with- 
out any  well-wishing,  then  they  drank  the  health  of 
Xenia  Pavlovna  and  the  other  ladies  present.  Their 


FAUST  287 

faces  reddened,  their  eyes  became  languishing,  and 
from  across  the  table  was  continually  heard:  "Please 
pass  the  caviar  this  way,  Peter  Vasilievich !"  or  "Please 
send  those  delicious  herrings  our  way,  Nicolai  Gre- 
gorievich !" 

Bon  mots,  jests,  and  anecdotes  were  incessantly 
exchanged,  some  of  them  very  stale  and  told  for  the 
fiftieth  time  at  that  very  table.  On  these  occasions 
Ivan  Mikhailovich  never  failed  to  recount  with  evi- 
dent pride  that  he  and  Xenia  had  married  for  love. 
"Ours  was  a  love  match.  I  can  almost  say  that  I  ab- 
ducted Xenia  Pavlovna." 

"Is  that  so?" 

"Yes,  just  so!  I  remember  it  as  if  it  happened  to- 
day. I  nearly  committed  suicide!  Yes!  We  had  an 
appointment  in  the  garden  (a  luxurious  garden  it  was! 
They  very  foolishly  sold  both  the  house  and  garden!) 
Well,  so  I  stand  there  in  the  old  arbor,  stand  and  wait. 
And  my  heart  is  beating  so  loudly  that  it  seems  to 
me  that  a  train  must  be  passing  somewhere — tock- 
tock-tock!"  Here  Ivan  Mikhailovich  began  to  tell  in 
detail  how  it  all  happened,  and  Xenia  Pavlovna  lis- 
tened to  his  narrative  from  where  she  sat,  slightly 
blushing,  with  half-closed  eyes,  and  a  little  shiver. 
"At  last  she  arrived  in  a  carriage!" 

"Came  on  foot,  not  in  a  carriage!"  Xenia  Pavlovna 
unexpectedly  corrected  him,  because  every  stroke,  every 
detail  of  these  far-away  recollections  was  inexpressibly 
dear  to  her. 

"Well,  in  a  carriage  or  on  foot.  What  material  dif- 
ference does  it  make !"  angrily  remarked  Ivan  Mikhail- 


238  EUGENE  CHIRIKOV 

ovich,  greatly  displeased  at  being  interrupted,  and  con- 
tinued his  story,  totally  ignoring  the  correction  as  well 
as  Xenia  Pavlovna  herself,  as  if  this  Xenia  Pavlovna 
and — that  other  one — about  whom  he  was  telling  his 
guests  had  nothing  whatsoever  in  common. 

After  supper  they  once  more  drank  tea,  yawned,  cov- 
ering the  mouth  with  the  hand,  or  with  the  napkin, 
and  breathed  hard,  looking  at  their  watches,  and  ex- 
changing glances  with  their  wives.  "Yes,  it  is  about 
time!"  replied  the  wives,  and  the  guests  began  to  take 
their  leave,  the  women  kissed  good-by,  the  men  looked 
for  their  rubbers  and  hats,  and  again  joked. 

After  the  guests  had  gone,  leaving  behind  them  to- 
bacco smoke,  glasses  half-full  of  undrunk  tea,  and  the 
scraps  of  the  supper,  the  house  suddenly  subsided  into 
quiet  and  peace,  and  Xenia  Pavlovna  sank  into  a  chair, 
and  remained  motionless  in  a  silent  antipathy  to  her 
surroundings.  She  rested  from  the  idle  talk,  noise, 
amiable  smiles,  and  entertaining,  and  felt  as  if  she  were 
just  recovering  from  a  serious  illness  or  had  had  to  go 
through  some  severe  penance.  The  mother,  passing 
through  the  drawing-room,  quickly  threw  open  the 
ventilators,  and  remarked :  "Just  like  a  barrack,"  pull- 
ing out  of  the  jardinieres  the  cigarette-stubs  which 
had  been  stuck  into  the  earth  by  the  smokers,  and, 
waxing  angry:  "I  purposely  placed  two  ash-trays  on 
each  card-table,  but  no!  they  must  go  and  stick  their 
cigarette-stubs  into  the  flower-pots !"  Then  she  began 
to  set  the  house  to  rights  and  clear  the  tables ;  and  all 
this  she  did  with  irritation.  Ivan  Mikhailovich  threw 
off  his  coat,  opened  his  vest,  and,  walking  through  the 


FAUST  239 

rooms,  yawned,  opening  his  mouth  wide  and  displaying 
his  teeth.  Then  he  went  into  the  bedroom,  undressed, 
and  stretched  himself  comfortably  on  the  soft  mattress 
of  the  splendid,  wide  bed. 

"Can't  you  leave  off  putting  the  things  in  order  till 
morning !  Eh,  how  cleanliness  has  suddenly  taken  hold 
of  them!"  he  shouted  through  the  whole  house,  and 
listened :  "Well,  now  the  babes  have  revolted !" 

From  the  nursery  came  the  crying  of  the  children 
and  the  soothing  voice  of  his  wife.  Well,  now  he 
knew  that  the  racket  would  go  on  for  a  long  time — 
she  would  not  get  away  from  them  so  soon.  And, 
turning  to  the  wall,  he  pulled  the  coverlet  higher. 

Once  or  twice  during  the  month  they  went  visiting. 
And  there  the  same  story  was  repeated :  conversations 
about  the  health  of  the  little  ones,  the  dwelling-houses, 
servants,  the  green  tables,  cigarette  smoke,  disputes 
about  the  Knave  of  Spades,  and  a  supper  with  vodka, 
cheap  wine,  caviar,  pickled  herrings,  and  the  indis- 
pensable cutlets  and  green  pease.  And  after  they  left 
here,  too,  no  doubt,  was  an  opening  of  ventilators,  and 
a  perfect  enjoyment  of  the  ensuing  quiet  and  peace. 

And  so  their  life  went  on  from  day  to  day,  monot- 
onous and  tiresome,  like  a  rainy  evening,  when  every- 
thing is  wet,  gray,  and  cloudy — an  oppressive,  colorless 
life.  "We  live  just  as  if  we  were  turning  over  the 
pages  of  a  cook-book.  One  day  only  differs  from 
another  in  so  far  as  that  yesterday  we  had  rice  soup 
and  cutlets  for  dinner,  and  to-day  cabbage  soup  and 
cutlets/'  sometimes  thought  Xenia  Pavlovna,  and  a 
kind  of  despair  suddenly  took  possession  of  all  her 


240  EUGENE  CHIRIKOV 

being,  and  it  seemed  to  her  that  she  must  decide  on 
something,  do  something.  But  what  should  she  do? 
And  in  reply  to  this  a  sad  smile  appeared  on  her  lips 
— gentle  and  helpless — and  her  eyes  rilled  with  unbid- 
den tears. 

Then  she  would  get  a  fit  of  the  blues.  Everything 
suddenly  began  to  bore  her,  she  did  not  care  to  see 
any  one,  nor  talk  to  any  one;  it  seemed  to  her  that 
people  spoke  not  of  what  they  thought,  nor  of  what 
interested  them,  but  were,  on  the  contrary,  doing  their 
best  to  hide  their  real  thoughts;  that  they  laughed  at 
things  not  because  they  thought  them  laughable,  but 
simply  from  politeness  and  wishing  to  appear  amiable. 
And  that  all  of  them  were  only  pretending  to  be  good 
and  clever,  while  in  reality  they  were  trivial,  stupid, 
and  unbearably  tiresome. 

She  sat  down  at  the  window,  resting  her  head  on 
her  hand,  and  looked  out  upon  the  street,  where  the 
tiresome,  hateful  day  was  dying  away  in  a  gray  twi- 
light. She  remembered  her  youth,  when  life  had 
seemed  so  big,  with  immeasurable  horizons  enveloped 
in  an  alluring,  dove-colored  mist,  so  interesting  in  its 
endless  variations,  so  enigmatic  and  incomprehensible; 
when  it  seemed  that  the  most  important  and  wished- 
for  thing  was  still  before  her,  when  her  maiden  heart 
stood  still  with  fear  .and  curiosity  before  the  unknown 
future,  when  her  heart  was  filled  with  a  vague  alarm 
in  the  expectation  of  a  great  happiness,  perhaps  the 
happiness  of  a  triumphant  love.  And  here  it  is — real 
life.  The  horizon  ends  with  the  grocery  store  across 
the  street  and  is  enveloped  in  the  poesy  of  the  cook- 


FAUST  241 

book.  All  of  them  live  from  day  to  day,  are  bored, 
gossip,  speak  of  their  dwellings,  servants,  occupations, 
play  cards,  bear  children,  and  complain — the  husbands 
about  their  wives  and  the  wives  about  their  husbands. 
And  there  is  no  triumphant  love  anywhere — but  only 
triumphant  triviality,  rascality,  and  ennui.  All  that 
was  interesting  in  life  was  already  a  thing  of  the  past, 
it  had  all  happened  long  before;  then  she  had  been 
supremely  happy,  and  that  happiness — which  is  given 
to  one  only  once  in  life — passed  away  imperceptibly, 
and  would  nevermore  return. 

It  grew  darker;  on  the  streets  appeared  timidly 
blinking  yellow  lights.  The  bells  rang  for  vespers, 
and  this  ringing  of  the  church-bells  awakened  in  her 
soul  something  vague  and  alarming :  a  sad  longing  for 
something  which  had  gone  forever;  or  was  it  that  it 
reproached  the  soul  soiled  by  life?  "Evening  bells, 
evening  bells !"  Xenia  whispered  with  a  deep  sigh. 

Suddenly  in  the  dim  drawing-room  appeared  a  whit- 
ish figure :  it  was  Ivan  Mikhailovich,  who  came  out  of 
his  study  without  a  vest.  He  stretched,  yawned,  let 
out  an  "O-go-go-go !"  and  remarked :  "I  dined  well  and 
enjoyed  a  splendid  snooze.  What  are  you  dreaming 
about?" 

"Oh,  just  so,  I  was  thinking  what  a  tiresome  affair 
it  is  to  live  in  this  world!" 

"How  is  that !  After  you  have  given  birth  to  three 
children  you  all  at  once  begin  to  find  life  tiresome?" 

"Oh,  how  commonplace  and  trivial  this  is !" 

"Well,  you  are  again  in  the  dumps !"  Ivan  Mikhailo- 
vich spoke  angrily  and  turned  away.  Xenia  Pavlovna 


242  EUGENE  CHIRIKOV 

broke  into  a  laugh,  then  this  laugh  became  intermixed 
with  crying,  and  ended  in  hysterics. 

"W-ell!  The  devil  is  loose!"  muttered  Ivan  Mi- 
khailovich,  and  rang  for  the  maid,  whom  he  ordered 
to  fetch  some  water.  "Cold,  from  the  faucet." 

His  mother-in-law,  rushing  into  the  room,  cried: 
"What  is  the  matter  ?  What  have  you  done  to  her  ?" 
The  whites  of  her  eyes  glittered  in  the  dark,  and  her 
whole  demeanor  expressed  a  thirst  for  revenge  and 
complete  redress.  "What  have  you  done  to  her  ?" 

"I  have  done  absolutely  nothing  to  her!  And  I  do 
not  know,  absolutely  do  not  know,  why  she  started  all 
this  comedy!  She  is  simply  an  unbalanced  woman, 
your  daughter  is,  absolutely  unbalanced!" 

"You  have  offended  her?" 

"Neither  by  word  nor  intention!  I  came  into  the 
drawing-room  and  found  her  moaning  at  the  window ; 
all  at  once,  without  provocation,  she  began  to  laugh, 
then  to  cry,"  said  Ivan  Mikhailovich,  shrugging  his 
shoulders  and  gesticulating,  and  Maria  Petrovna, 
whom  Ivan  Mikhailovich,  in  moments  of  exaspera- 
tion, sometimes  called  "the  old  witch,"  did  not  believe 
him,  and  insistently  demanded  an  explanation :  "Don't 
you  tell  me  that.  Where  did  you  get  it  that  she  is 
unbalanced  ?  We  never  had  any  one  of  an  unbalanced 
mind  in  our  family — every  one  was  healthy  and  sane. 
What  have  you  been  doing  to  her?" 

"All  right,  then!  All  right,  if  they  were  all  sane 
and  normal!  I  am  glad  to  hear  it!"  said  Ivan  Mi- 
khailovich angrily,  and  speedily  left  the  house.  He 
went  to  the  club,  where  he  played  cards,  playing  high 


FAUST  243 

from  pure  spite,  and  losing  also  from  pure  spitefulness. 
In  the  mean  time  Maria  Petrovna  walked  around 
with  a  pained  expression  on  her  face,  not  being  able 
to  understand  what  had  passed  between  the  two.  Sev- 
eral times  she  approached  Xenia  Pavlovna,  and  began : 

"Why  is  all  this  quarreling  going  on  in  the  house 
lately?  What  is  the  reason  for  it?  Have  you  found 
out  anything  wrong  about  him,  or  what?" 

"I  have  found  out  nothing !" 

"Has  he  offended  you  in  any  way  ?" 

"No,  no,  what  makes  you  think  so  ?" 

"You  do  wrong  to  hide  it  from  me.  It  will  leak  out 
somehow,  do  not  fear.  I  shall  find  out  everything, 
my  lady!"  Then  she  suddenly  changed  her  tone  and 
approached  the  matter  from  a  different  side : 

"He  is  jealous.     You  should  not  provoke  him." 

"Oh,  please  don't !  He  is  simply  stupid,  that  is  all !" 
Xenia  Pavlovna  interrupted  her,  laughing  through  her 
tears,  and  Maria  Petrovna  grew  angry. 

"If  a  wife  speaks  like  that  about  her  husband,  no 
good  will  ever  come  of  it !"  And  she  began  to  defend 
her  son-in-law  with  all  her  might,  and  in  the  end  it 
appeared,  according  to  her  own  words,  that  a  better 
man  than  Ivan  Mikhailovich  could  not  be  found  the 
world  over.  "Just  look  at  others,  little  mother !  Take, 
for  instance,  the  husband  of  Kapitolina  Ivanovna !  And 
it  is  nothing  to  her,  my  lady.  She  does  not  complain 
— she  suffers  in  silence,  and  would  not  even  think  of 
dubbing  her  husband  "stupid" — as  you  are  doing.  Of 
course,  what  we  have  we  are  careless  of — and  once  we 
lose  it — we  cry!" 


244  EUGENE  CHIRIKOV 

Nevertheless  she  could  get  no  explanation  of  what 
had  occurred,  and  could  only  take  refuge  in  guesswork 
and  supposition. 

She  did  not  go  to  sleep  till  the  return  of  her 
son-in-law,  and,  sitting  in  the  drawing-room  on  the 
sofa,  she  continually  pondered  over  what  now  most 
interested  her,  letting  escape  from  time  to  time  an 
"M'm." 

And  Ivan  Mikhailovich,  after  he  had  supped  and 
taken  an  extra  glass  or  two,  came  home  and  an- 
nounced himself  by  a  ring  so  angry  and  imperious 
that  it  sounded  noisily  through  the  quiet  rooms,  and 
frightened  Maria  Petrovna.  "He  must  be  drunk,"  she 
thought,  and,  opening  the  door,  she  did  not  even  sigh 
as  usual,  but  spoke  lovingly.  "There  is  some  supper 
left  for  you  in  the  dining-room." 

Ivan  Mikhailovich  did  not  reply.  He  passed  through 
the  rooms  with  protesting  step,  banged  the  doors, 
coughed  loudly,  and,  in  general,  gave  one  to  under- 
stand that  he  was  his  own  master.  And  to  still  more 
emphasize  his  independence,  he  did  not  go  to  sleep  in 
the  superb  double  bed  with  its  silver  ornaments,  but 
lay  down  on  the  sofa  in  his  study  under  the  reindeer 
antlers  and  the  rifle  from  which  he  had  never  fired 
a  shot. 

"Here,  take  at  least  a  pillow!"  came  Maria  Pe- 
trovna's  meek  voice  from  the  other  side  of  the  door, 
and  the  white  corner  of  a  pillow  was  thrust  through 
the  slightly  open  door  of  the  study.  Her  son-in-law 
did  not  reply.  "It  is  uncomfortable  to  lie  that  way, 
your  neck  will  pain  you." 


FAUST  245 

"Don't  you  trouble  yourself  about  my  neck!"  came 
from  the  cabinet. 

But  Maria  Petrovna  threw  the  pillow  on  an  easy 
chair,  and  the  door  closed.  Ivan  Mikhailovich  was  a 
man  who  prided  himself  on  the  strength  of  his  char- 
acter, and,  therefore,  he  did  not  take  the  pillow,  but 
supported  his  head  with  his  fist  and  puffed  while  he 
thought  of  the  oppressive  disagreeableness  of  mar- 
ried life. 

The  dog  Norma  evidently  took  the  part  of  the  hus- 
band, and  whenever  the  couple  quarreled  and  occupied 
different  sleeping  rooms,  the  dog  would  not  stay  with 
the  woman. 

Opening  the  door  of  the  study  with  her  paw,  she 
approached  the  sofa,  placed  her  black  muzzle  on  Ivan 
Mikhailovich's  breast,  and  gazed  at  him  with  eyes 
that  wished  to  say:  "What  hags  they  are,  all  of 
them!  They  even  do  not  know  how  to  appreciate 
a  man  like  you!"  Ivan  Mikhailovich  felt  a  silent 
gratitude  toward  Norma,  and  patted  her  with  his  hand, 
pulling  lovingly  at  her  long  ears.  But  the  door  of 
the  study  again  opened  slightly,  and  from  the  other 
side  came  the  whisper  of  Maria  Petrovna :  "Norma ! 
Norma !"  But  Norma  did  not  go.  Ivan  Mikhailo- 
vich held  her  by  the  collar  and  patted  her  with  re- 
doubled energy.  "She  will  let  in  fleas,"  again  came 
the  low  voice.  "Norma!  Norma!" 

Ivan  Mikhailovich  sprang  from  the  sofa,  closing  the 
door  tightly,  and  the  melodious  sound  of  the  lock- 
spring  ended  the  diplomatic  overtures  of  his  mother- 
in-law. 


246  EUGENE  CHIRIKOV 

"Sleeps  with  the  dog.  A  fine  thing  this !"  spoke  the 
grumbling  voice  behind  the  door,  and  all  became  quiet. 

These  were  scenes  with  dramatic  elements  and  ef- 
fects in  them.  But  there  were  other  scenes  of  the 
ordinary  sort,  so  to  speak,  without  the  dramatic  effects, 
scenes  which  were  repeated  regularly  in  the  same  form 
and  in  the  very  same  expressions. 

These  scenes  always  took  place  on  the  twentieth  of 
the  month,  when  Ivan  Mikhailovich  received  his  sal- 
ary, and  the  large  number  of  small  creditors  had  to 
be  paid.  Somehow  there  was  never  sufficient  money 
to  settle  all  the  bills,  and  each  time  Ivan  Mikhailo- 
vich thought  that  the  money  ought  to  be  enough  to 
cover  all  expenses,  and  railed  at  the  womenfolk  who 
dreamed  so  much  about  the  emancipation  of  women, 
while  they  did  not  even  know  how  to  regulate  their 
own  household.  "Emancipation,"  he  grumbled,  taking 
the  money  from  his  pocket-book  and  throwing  it  on 
the  table. 

"But  what  has  emancipation  to  do  with  this  matter  ?" 

"They  go  and  teach  you  the  devil-knows-what — 
all  kinds  of  geography,  algebra,  trigonometry,  but 
you  do  not  know  how  to  make  both  ends  meet — 
emancipation !" 

"And  you  should  go  a  little  less  to  the  club,  Ivan 
Mikhailovich;  then  probably  the  income  would  cover 
the  expenditures!"  replied  Maria  Petrovna,  bitingly. 

"And  where,  pray,  can  I  get  it  for  you?  I  am 
not  coining  money.  I  suppose  you  know  I  am  not 
a  counterfeiter?" 

And  all  three  started  to  upbraid  and  reproach  each 


FAUST  .     247 

other,  and  for  a  moment  they  became  submerged  in 
such  trivialities  and  unpleasantness  that  they  were 
afterward  thoroughly  ashamed  of  themselves.  After 
every  twentieth  of  the  month  there  remained  in  the 
soul  of  Xenia  Pavlovna  a  kind  of  soot,  and  this  greasy 
soot  dimmed  her  eyes,  made  her  apathetic  and  slow, 
and  it  seemed  as  if  she  had  all  at  once  become  old, 
ill-looking,  and  disheartened.  This  young  and  very 
charming  woman  looked  at  such  times  like  a  beautiful 
bouquet  of  flowers  that  had  withered  and  been  thrown 
out  of  the  window.  So  they  lived  day  after  day, 
months  and  years,  and  when  an  acquaintance  asked, 
"How  are  you  getting  along?"  they  invariably  replied: 
"Very  well,  thank  you !" 

It  sometimes  became  necessary  to  refresh  them- 
selves after  this  kind  of  life — to  depart,  at  least  for 
a  day,  from  the  beaten  track — and  so  Ivan  Mikhailo- 
vich  went  on  a  short  spree  two  or  three  times  a  year. 
"One  must  overhaul  himself  thoroughly  from  time  to 
time ;  it  is  not  only  useful,  but  also  necessary,"  he  usu- 
ally said  on  the  next  day  after  such  an  exploit. 

The  only  thing  that  ever  brightened  Xenia  Pav- 
lovna's  life  a  little  was  going  to  the  theatre.  This  hap- 
pened so  seldom,  however,  that  she  looked  upon  such 
rarely  occurring  occasions  in  the  light  of  important 
events.  Ivan  Mikhailovich  did  not  like  to  go  to  the 
theatre,  and  when  Xenia  Pavlovna  said,  "We  ought  to 
go  to  the  theatre  and  refresh  ourselves  a  little,"  Ivan 
Mikhailovich  was  sure  to  remember  how,  ten  years 
before,  when  they  visited  St.  Petersburg  on  their 
honeymoon,  they  had  been  to  the  opera  and  the  drama, 


248  EUGENE  CHIRIKOV 

and  would  reply:  "After  seeing  Figner  and  Mme. 
Savina,  it  is  not  worth  while,  my  dear,  to  go  to 
see  such  small  fry,  and  it  only  spoils  an  impression 
for  us  !w 

But  whenever  "Faust"  was  presented  on  the  stage 
of  the  local  theatre,  no  pleadings  were  necessary :  Ivan 
Mikhailovich  never  failed  to  take  seats  in  the  third 
row  of  the  orchestra  for  himself  and  Xenia  Pavlovna. 

"To-day  we  go  to  see  'Faust/  "  he  said  in  an  angry 
tone  on  returning  from  the  bank,  carelessly  throwing 
two  colored  tickets  upon  the  table. 

"'Faust'?"  joyfully  exclaimed  Xenia  Pavlovna,  and 
her  face  became  radiant  with  joy. 

Gay  and  exalted  with  the  pleasure  that  awaited  her, 
Xenia  Pavlovna  usually  began  to  get  ready  very  early. 
And  while  she  was  dressing  and  combing  her  hair, 
Ivan  Mikhailovich  stood  close  by  to  see  that  it  was 
all  done  properly,  because  when  he  appeared  with  his 
wife  in  society  he  liked  everything  to  be  "just  so," 
and  was  pleased  to  have  every  one  think,  as  they  saw 
her  pass  on  his  arm,  "A  charming  woman  that !  Really 
charming !"  Therefore  he  was  a  very  stern  critic,  and 
while  she  dressed  he  continually  vexed  her  by  his  re- 
marks: "Your  coiffure  is  too  small!  You  have  the 
face  of  a  Marguerite,  and  you  dress  your  hair  to  make 
you  look  like  a  Jewess  1" 

"It  is  not  true!" 

"A  curious  thing,  really:  women  understand  less 
than  any  one  else  what  is  becoming  to  them,  and 
they  care  less  than  all  to  win  the  admiration  of  their 
husbands!" 


FAUST  249 

Xerna  Pavlovna  also  wished  to  look  well,  but  she 
did  not  trust  overmuch  to  the  good  taste  of  Ivan  Mi- 
khailovich,  and  at  the  same  time  she  distrusted  herself, 
too,  and  the  upshot  of  it  all  was  that  they  invariably 
quarreled,  and  left  the  house  sulking  and  displeased 
with  each  other.  Deeply  aggravated  and  disheart- 
ened, they  went  to  the  theatre  without  any  pleasurable 
anticipation,  as  if  some  one  were  driving  them  thither. 
First  they  walked  arm  in  arm,  feeling  angry  with  each 
other,  and  longing  to  pull  their  arms  away  and  walk 
apart;  then  Ivan  Mikhailovich  called  a  cabman  in  an 
angry  voice  that  seemed  to  hate  all  the  cabbies  in  the 
world.  Having  helped  his  wife  into  the  sleigh,  he  sat 
down  by  her  side  and  placed  his  arm  around  her  waist. 
The  whole  way  they  never  exchanged  a  word,  but  Ivan 
Mikhailovich  gave  vent  to  his  irritation  in  a  shower 
of  abuse  directed  at  the  poor  cabby:  "Careful  there! 
Don't  you  see  the  hollows,  you  stupid!" — "To  the 
right,  you  dolt!" 

The  orchestra  played  the  overture  from  "Faust/' 
Ivan  Mikhailovich  and  his  wife  walked  arm  in  arm 
through  the  long,  carpeted  aisle  between  two  long 
rows  of  orchestra  chairs  toward  their  seats.  Ivan 
Mikhailovich  felt  as  if  all  eyes  were  directed  toward 
him,  and  he  tried  to  walk  with  greater  dignity,  with 
his  head  proudly  thrown  back  and  his  rounded  paunch 
thrown  forward.  Xenia  Pavlovna  walked  with  down- 
cast eyes  and  a  face  which  looked  rigidly  cold  and 
offended,  as  if  she  had  been  sentenced  to  die  and  were 
walking  toward  the  gallows.  The  electric  lights  went 
out;  the  curtain  rose  upon  a  sea  looking  very  much 


250  EUGENE  CHIRIKOV 

like  a  sky  and  a  sky  very  much  like  a  sea,  with  some 
sort  of  fantastic  ruins  and  tropical  vegetation.  The 
traditional  Faust,  in  his  brown  dressing-gown,  night- 
cap, and  long,  gray  beard,  sang  in  his  metallic  tenor 
voice,  smoothing  his  beard  with  his  hand : 

"Accursed  be  human  science,  human  prayer,  human 
faith!" 

At  first  Xenia  Pavlovna  was  not  much  affected  by 
either  the  music  or  the  singing.  She  looked  more 
than  she  listened.  When  the  red  Mephistopheles  ap- 
peared and  sang  that  everything  was  well  with  him, 
and  that  he  had  plenty  of  money,  Xenia  Pavlovna 
remembered  that  it  would  soon  be  the  twentieth  and 
that  they  owed  the  butcher  for  two  months.  "Eman- 
cipation!" she  seemed  to  hear  Ivan  Mikhailovich  ex- 
claiming, and  when  she  stopped  thinking  of  the 
butcher  and  emancipation,  Faust  had  already  thrown 
off  his  dressing-gown  and  beard,  and  had  changed 
from  a  decrepit  old  man  into  a  handsome,  strong 
youth,  and  this  unexpectedness  called  forth  the  first 
smile  upon  her  lips. 

"To  me  returned  lovely  youth!"  victoriously  sang 
Faust,  approaching  the  footlights  and  raising  his  hand, 
and  Xenia  Pavlovna  began  to  think  how  old  she  was 
and  how  old  Ivan  Mikhailovich  was;  that  their  youth 
had  already  passed,  and  would  nevermore  return. 
Xenia  Pavlovna  sighed  and  stealthily  glanced  at  Ivan 
Mikhailovich's  face.  He  sat  deep  in  his  chair,  with 
head  bent  to  one  side  and  his  hands  locked  over  his 
paunch,  and  in  his  well-groomed  face,  with  its  waxed 
and  twisted  mustaches,  there  was  so  much  of  that  self- 


FAUST  261 

sufficiency  and  well-bred  sleekness  of  the  native  that 
Xenia  Pavlovna  hurriedly  turned  away. 

During  the  first  entr'acte  they  went  into  the  lobby 
of  the  theatre,  she  leaning  on  his  arm,  and  he  feel- 
ing uneasy  the  whole  time  at  the  thought  that  hfs 
wife's  hair  was  badly  dressed  and  that  her  face  was 
not  alight  with  the  joy  and  rapture  of  the  other  women, 
who,  with  their  sparkling  eyes  and  rustling  skirts, 
laughed  and  talked  incessantly  in  their  ringing,  happy 
voices. 

After  walking  a  little  up  and  down  the  spacious  lobby, 
engrossed  in  their  own  thoughts,  the  pair  returned 
to  their  seats.  Under  the  cascades  of  light  falling 
from  the  electric  lustre,  the  orchestra  dazzled  the  eyes 
with  the  beautiful  dresses  of  the  ladies,  and  buzzed 
like  a  beehive  from  the  multitude  of  noises,  motions, 
and  rustling,  but  this  talk,  glitter,  and  dazzle  seemed 
to  Xenia  Pavlovna  distant  and  strange,  and  the  walls 
of  people,  the  boxes  resembling  rich  bouquets  of 
flowers,  awakened  in  her  a  feeling  of  loneliness  and 
remoteness.  She  sat  with  her  hands  lying  listlessly  on 
her  lap  and  with  downcast  eyes;  she  did  not  wish  to 
be  disturbed  in  her  present  brooding  mood,  and  feared 
that  some  acquaintance  might  approach  them  and  ask 
how  they  were,  or  that  Ivan  Mikhailovich  might  sud- 
denly begin  to  compare  the  singers  with  those  they  had 
once  heard. 

When  the  lights  went  out  and  the  curtain  rose 
again,  she  felt  a  great  relief,  and  it  suddenly  seemed 
to  her  that  she  was  once  more  in  her  maiden  bower 
and  had  locked  the  door  on  the  outside  world.  Gazing 


252  EUGENE  CHIRIKOV 

at  the  scene  before  her,  she  was  gradually  carried  away 
into  the  realm  of  sound  and  melody,  and  wholly  sur- 
rendered herself  to  the  vague,  disturbing  emotions 
that  had  arisen  in  her  soul  under  the  influence  of 
music  and  song.  The  rancor  and  vexation  she  had 
felt  toward  her  husband  gradually  subsided,  and  the 
memory  of  the  harsh  wrangles,  petty  disputes,  all  the 
tiresome  prosiness  of  her  daily  life,  vanished,  and  an 
exquisite  calm  and  tranquillity  took  possession  of  her 
soul,  brightening  and  clearing  up  everything  within 
her.  In  the  third  act  the  soul  of  Xenia  Pavlovna  flew 
away  from  her  native  town,  and  she  forgot  herself 
and  everybody  else,  and  wholly  surrendered  herself 
to  the  power  of  music  and  song,  to  the  moonlit  night, 
the  silvery  shimmer  of  the  stars,  and  the  contempla- 
tion of  a  happy  love,  which  waxed  stronger  and 
stronger,  seemingly  measureless  and  all-powerful,  but 
at  the  same  time  full  of  a  sadness  and  pensiveness 
as  quiet  and  gentle  as  this  moonlit  night  itself,  and  as 
this  exquisite  young  girl  before  her,  with  her  thick, 
long  braid  of  golden  hair,  who,  with  the  sincerity  and 
straightforwardness  of  a  child,  was  kneeling  before 
her  handsome,  youthful  lover,  pleading  with  him  for 
mercy.  Here  she  stands  flooded  by  the  radiant  moon- 
light, trembling  with  fear  and  happiness,  her  head 
resting  on  the  shoulder  of  the  handsome  youth.  Here 
she  sings  at  the  wide-open  window,  telling  the  stars, 
the  quiet  night,  and  the  slumbering  old  garden,  that 
seems  to  have  been  enchanted  by  dreams  of  love,  of 
her  happiness;  and  her  song,  pure  and  sacred  like  a 
prayer,  soars  upward  to  the  starry,  blue  heavens. 


FAUST  253 

How  very  dear  and  near  this  is  to  people  who  have 
lived  through  the  fantom  of  happiness.  She,  Xenia 
Pavlovna,  had  once  been  just  such  a  sweet  girl,  with 
a  thick,  golden  braid  hanging  down  her  back;  she 
had  been  just  as  happy  and  carefree,  and  sang  just 
as  sweetly  to  the  stars  and  the  silent  garden  flooded 
with  the  mysterious,  sad  moonlight,  and  she  also,  just 
as  this  maiden,  had  trembled  with  fear  and  pleaded 
with  the  man  she  loved  for  mercy. 

"Ha!  ha!  ha!  ha!"  rolled  the  thundering  laugh  of 
Mephistopheles — such  pitiless,  powerful,  and  provok- 
ing laughter — and  the  chord,  which  echoed  in  Xenia 
Pavlovna's  heart  with  inexpressible  tenderness  and 
sadness,  broke  and  grew  silent,  leaving  room  only  for 
this  laughter,  oppressive  and  revolting  in  its  trium- 
phant triviality  and  truth.  And  reality  suddenly 
broke  into  the  realm  of  dreams  and  fancies.  Xenia 
Pavlovna  lowered  her  eyes,  compressed  her  lips,  and 
a  smile  passed  over  her  face,  the  strange  smile  of  a 
person  who  has  been  caught  unawares. 

"He  laughs  first  rate!"  remarked  Ivan  Mikhail- 
ovich  in  an  earnest  voice,  slightly  moving  in  his 
chair. 

Xenia  Pavlovna  looked  at  her  husband  and  sighed 
sorrowfully.  She  had  already  resigned  herself  to 
Ivan  Mikhailovich,  to  his  pompous  solemnity,  and 
his  hands  crossed  over  his  paunch.  Those  hands  no 
longer  awakened  her  ire.  Once  this  very  same  man 
who  now  sat  by  her  side  was  her  Faust,  and  with  him 
was  closely  bound  up  her  love-drama.  Even  if  it  had 
been  a  mirage,  a  mistake,  it  was  the  mistake  of  her 


254  EUGENE   CHIRIKOV 

whole  life,  a  mistake  which  would  never  be  repeated 
— like  youth  itself. 

The  curtain  came  down.  The  noise  of  applause, 
resembling  a  rainstorm,  and  the  wild  roar  of  the  over- 
enthusiastic  gallery  filled  the  theatre  from  top  to  bot- 
tom. The  curtain  rose  once  more  on  the  sea  and  the 
ruins,  and  Faust,  Marguerite,  and  Mephistopheles  ap- 
peared holding  each  other's  hands,  bowing  and  smiling 
to  the  public,  and  Xenia  Pavlovna  felt  as  if  she  had 
been  suddenly  awakened  from  a  sleep  full  of  tender, 
delicious  dreams,  vague  and  enchanting,  but  already 
forgotten,  and  she  felt  vexed  because  she  was  awak- 
ened, and  was  now  possessed  by  a  tormenting  long- 
ing to  recall  and  bring  back  the  frightened-off  dreams. 

She  did  not  want  to  look  at  Marguerite,  who  had 
suddenly  turned  into  an  actress,  thirsting  for  hand- 
clapping  and  making  eyes  at  that  huge  monster — 
the  public;  at  Mephistopheles,  who  stood  with  his 
right  hand  pressed  to  his  breast  as  a  token  of  grati- 
tude and  sincere  pleasure,  nor  at  Faust,  who  suddenly 
looked  very  much  like  a  hair-dresser,  and  who  was 
sending  in  all  directions  sweetish,  airy  kisses. 

"Come,  Vania!" 

Ivan  Mikhailovich  rose  and  offered  her  his  arm,  and 
they  once  more  repaired  to  the  lobby.  Here  he  treated 
her  to  tea  and  fruits.  "It  is  splendid  for  allaying 
thirst!"  he  said,  handing  her  an  orange.  And  from 
this  moment  all  animosity  was  forgotten,  and  peace 
reigned  once  more  between  them. 

"Not  sour,  I  hope?" 

"No,  it  is  very  good." 


FAUST  255 

Xenia  Pavlovna  ate  her  orange,  and  gazed  at  the 
men  who  passed  them.  "They  are  all  different  here 
from  what  they  are  at  home,"  she  thought;  "they  are 
all  rude,  all  go  to  their  clubs,  and  my  Vania  is  in  real- 
ity much  better  than  many  of  these  men." 

"How  did  you  like  Marguerite,  Vania?" 

"Pretty  well — though,  after  Alma  Fostrem,  she  is, 
of  course — " 

"Have  you  heard  Alma  in  that  role?" 

"Well,  I  like  that,  really!  Did  we  not  hear  her 
together  at  St.  Petersburg!  Have  you  forgotten 
already  ?" 

"Ach,  that  was  so  long  ago." 

"Though  this  opera  is  immortal  by  itself,  I  have 
seen  it  over  a  hundred  times,  and  will  be  glad  to  see 
it  as  many  times  more.  Here  one  sees  life  as  in  a 
mirror —  Yes —  Do  you  remember — in  the  garden?" 
he  concluded  in  a  low  voice,  leaning  toward  his  wife. 

Xenia  Pavlovna's  face  was  covered  with  a  slight 
blush,  and  her  eyes  had  a  thoughtful,  far-away  look 
in  them,  which  gradually  grew  sad  and  dreamy. 

"All  this  was,  but  it  has  passed  as  if  in  a  dream," 
her  lips  whispered,  and  her  head  swayed  on  her  beau- 
tiful bare  neck. 

Here  some  acquaintances  passed  and,  pressing  their 
hands  warmly,  inquired: 

"How  are  you?" 

"Very  well,  thank  you.    And  you?" 

"Pretty  well,  as  usual.  But  you,  Xenia  Pavlovna, 
still  continue  to  grow  more  beautiful !" 

Xenia  Pavlovna  blushed,  and  a  hardly  perceptible 

12— VOL.  i 


256  EUGENE  CHIRIKOV 

shade  of  pleasure  flitted  over  her  face,  and  made  it 
sweet  and  strong  and  proud. 

"What  are  you  saying!"  she  replied,  slightly  screw- 
ing up  her  eyes  and  coquettishly  fanning  herself.  "On 
the  contrary,  I  think  I  am  growing  worse  looking  with 
each  passing  day!" 

Then  all  the  men  began  to  protest  in  chorus,  and 
the  women  silently  fixed  their  coiffures  with  their 
fingers,  while  Ivan  Mikhailovich  looked  at  his  wife 
and  thought  that  she  was  really  a  very  lovely  woman, 
probably  one  of  the  loveliest  in  the  whole  theatre,  and 
he  also  began  to  feel  very  pleased,  and  twirling  his 
mustaches,  he  spoke  proudly : 

"You  ought  to  see  her  portrait  when  she  was  my 
fiancee!  It  hangs  over  my  desk.  She  had  a  braid 
twice  as  thick  as  this  Marguerite's — " 

In  the  last  scene  a  whole  revolution  took  place  in  the 
soul  of  Ivan  Mikhailovich.  He  began  to  imagine 
Xenia  Pavlovna  overtaken  by  the  sad  fate  of  Mar- 
guerite, and  himself  in  the  role  of  Faust,  and  grew 
very  sorry  for  Xenia  Pavlovna.  The  gloomy  arches 
of  the  prison,  on  the  gray  stone  floor  some  straw,  and 
on  it  this  woman,  outraged,  criminal,  insane,  and 
nevertheless  so  pure  and  saintly ;  the  low  melodies  so 
full  of  sadness  and  tenderness  in  which  arose  hazy 
memories  of  past  happiness,  made  Ivan  Mikhailo- 
vich's  breath  come  faster.  He  looked  at  Xenia  Pav- 
lovna, and  noticing  tears  in  her  eyes,  felt  that  this 
woman  was  very  dear  to  him  and  that  he  was  some- 
how very  guilty  toward  her. 

Ivan  Mikhailovich  sadly  gazed  upon  the  stage,  lis- 


FAUST  257 

tened  to  the  low  strains  of  music,  and  it  seemed  to  him 
at  times  that  it  was  his  Xenia  thrown  into  prison,  and 
he  recalled  how  they  first  met  at  a  ball  and  how  he  at 
the  conclusion  of  it  sang :  "Amidst  the  noisy  ball,"  and 
how  they  afterward  sat  in  the  dark  garden  listening 
to  the  singing  of  the  nightingale  and  gazing  at  the 
silvery  stars. 

All  this  was,  but  it  had  passed  as  if  in  a  dream. 

They  returned  from  the  theatre  with  souls  re- 
freshed, overfilled  with  sadness  mingled  with  joy,  and 
it  seemed  to  both  as  if  all  their  former  disputes  and 
frictions  over  trivialities  had  vanished  forevermore, 
and  a  part  of  their  former  happiness  had  returned  to 
them.  They  rode  home  dashingly  in  a  light,  new 
sleigh  over  the  well-beaten  road,  and  Ivan  Mikhailo- 
vich  had  his  arm  round  Xenia  Pavlovna's  waist  as 
tightly  as  if  he  feared  to  lose  her  on  the  way.  Xenia 
Pavlovna  hid  her  face  in  the  soft  white  fur  of  her 
collar,  and  only  her  sparkling  eyes  were  visible  from 
under  a  very  becoming  little  hat  of  the  same  white  fur, 
like  two  coals,  dark  and  moist. 

Ivan  Mikhailovich  wished  to  kiss  her,  forgetting 
that  they  were  in  the  open  road,  but  Xenia  Pavlovna 
screwed  up  her  eyes,  in  which  lurked  silent  laughter, 
and  slightly  shook  her  white  fur  hat. 

At  home  the  samovar  and  Maria  Petrovna  awaited 
them. 

The  samovar  gurgled  joyfully,  rising  importantly 
in  all  its  beauty  and  sparkle  from  the  snow-white  of 
the  tablecloth;  the  nice  white  loaves  of  bread  smelt 
good  and  very  tempting;  and  fresh,  soft-boiled  eggs 


268  EUGENE  CHIRIKOV 

seemed  just  waiting  to  be  cracked  over  the  nose  with 
a  spoon.  And  Maria  Petrovna,  sailing  out  of  the 
nursery  with  her  old  wrap  over  her  shoulders,  spoke 
kindly:  "Well,  children,  you  must  be  quite  hungry?" 

Ivan  Mikhailovich  did  not  reply.  He  entered  the 
dimly  lighted  salon  and  paced  it  with  a  slow  tread, 
smoothed  his  hair  with  the  palm  of  his  hand  and 
purred:  "Angel,  Angel  Marguerite!" 

Then  he  returned  to  the  dining-room,  approached 
Xenia  Pavlovna,  silently  kissed  her  on  the  head,  and 
again  went  into  the  salon,  where  he  continued  purring. 

"You  had  better  eat  and  leave  'Angel  Marguerite' 
for  after,"  said  Maria  Petrovna,  thrusting  her  head 
into  the  doorway  of  the  salon. 

"In  a  moment!  In  a  moment!"  Ivan  Mikhailovich 
replied  with  vexation,  and  continued  walking,  wholly 
surrendering  himself  to  vague  emotions  and  recollec- 
tions and  the  feeling  of  tender  sadness  for  the  past. 

Afterward  they  all  three  had  tea  and  spoke  very 
amiably,  and  a  good  and  peaceful  feeling  filled  their 
hearts.  Xenia  Pavlovna  changed  her  evening  dress 
for  a  white  capote  with  sleeves  resembling  wings,  and 
let  down  her  hair.  She  visited  the  nursery  several 
times,  and,  sinking  on  her  knees  before  the  three  little 
beds,  she  gazed  with  a  mother's  passion  and  tender- 
ness at  the  sleeping  babies  with  their  full,  chubby  little 
arms  and  sweet,  care-free  faces,  and  it  seemed  to  her 
that  here  were  sleeping  the  little  angels,  pure,  gen- 
tle, helpless,  and  great  in  their  purity,  that  had  carried 
Marguerite  into  heaven. 

"You  look  like  Marguerite  in  prison,"  remarked  her 


FAUST  259 

husband,  leaning  on  his  arm  and  gazing  at  his  wife 
long  and  attentively,  and  it  seemed  to  him  as  if  a  whole 
chapter  of  his  life  had  disappeared  and  before  him  was 
a  sweet,  young  maiden  with  golden  hair,  whom  one 
longed  to  love,  to  adore  forever. 

And  under  this  glance  Xenia  Pavlovna  lowered 
her  eyes,  smiled,  and  felt  that  somewhere  far  down 
at  the  very  bottom  of  her  soul  the  broken,  unfin- 
ished song  of  her  youthful  heart  sounded  like  a 
mountain  echo. 

Ivan  Mikhailovich  who,  generally  supping  at  home 
in  his  shirt-sleeves,  now  felt  constrained  to  take  off  his 
coat,  endeavored  to  lend  to  his  gestures  and  motions 
as  much  elegance  and  grace  as  possible,  and  was 
amiable  and  courteous  at  table,  even  to  his  mother- 
in-law. 

"Shall  I  hand  you  the  butter  ?"  he  asked,  anticipating 
her  wish. 

"You  are  acting  just  as  if  you  had  come  on  a  visit/' 
Maria  Petrovna  remarked,  and,  taking  the  butter  with 
a  pleasant  smile,  said :  "Merci !" 

"Well,  good  night,  my  Marguerite!"  said  Ivan  Mi- 
khailovich, approaching  his  wife  and  once  more  gaz- 
ing attentively  into  her  eyes;  then  he  kissed  her  hand 
and  cheek. 

"Good  night,  my  Faust!"  jokingly  replied  Xenia 
Pavlovna,  kissing  her  husband  on  the  lips. 

Then  Ivan  Mikhailovich  pressed  Maria  Petrovna's 
hand  and  went  into  the  bedroom. 

The  blue  hanging-lamp  flooded  the  chamber  with  a 
soft,  tender,  soothing,  bluish  light,  and  it  was  so  peace- 


260  FAUST 

ful  and  cozy.  Ivan  Mikhailovich  undressed,  and,  tak- 
ing off  his  boots,  still  continued  to  sing  from  "Faust" 
in  a  tender  falsetto : 

"  "Tis  life  alone  to  be  near  thee, 
Thine  only,  all  thine  own!" 


THE    DUEL 


BY    NIKOLAI    DMITRIEVITCH    TELESHO  T 


Teleshov  was  born  in  1867  and  studied  at  the 
Moscow  Academy  of  Applied  Sciences.  He 
started  on  his  literary  career  in  1884  and  met 
with  almost  immediate  recognition. 

In  his  choice  of  subjects,  as  well  as  in  the 
strong  objective  way  in  which  he  treats  them, 
Teleshov  is  a  disciple  of  Anton  Chekhov,  and 
his  affinity  with  that  great  artist  has  been 
pointed  out  by  the  foremost  Russian  critics. 

Unlike  some  of  the  other  younger  Russian 
writers,  Teleshov  is  wholly  sound,  sympathetic, 
and  gentle  in  his  writings.  He  takes  his  sub- 
jects wherever  he  can  most  easily  lay  his  hand 
upon  them— in  the  petty,  gray,  every-day  life  of 
the  tradesman  or  from  among  the  loose,  un- 
restrained half-JBohemianism  which  is  found 
in  every  great  city. 


THE    DUEL 

BY    NIKOLAI    TELESHOV 

IT  was  early  morning — 
Vladimir  Kladunov,  a  tall,  graceful  young  man, 
twenty-two  years  of  age,  almost  boyish  in  ap- 
pearance, with  a  handsome  face  and  thick,  fair  curls, 
dressed  in  the  uniform  of  an  officer  and  in  long  riding 
boots,  minus  overcoat  and  cap,  stood  upon  a  meadow 
covered  with  new-fallen  snow,  and  gazed  at  another 
officer,  a  tall,  red-faced,  mustached  man,  who  faced 
him  at  a  distance  of  thirty  paces,  and  was  slowly  lift- 
ing his  hand  in  which  he  held  a  revolver,  and  aimed 
it  straight  at  Vladimir. 

With  his  arms  crossed  over  his  breast  and  also  hold- 
ing in  one  hand  a  revolver,  Kladunov,  almost  with 
indifference,  awaited  the  shot  of  his  opponent.  His 
handsome,  young  face,  though  a  little  paler  than  usual, 
was  alight  with  courage,  and  wore  a  scornful  smile. 
His  dangerous  position,  and  the  merciless  determina- 
tion of  his  adversary,  the  strenuous  attention  of  the  sec- 
onds who  silently  stood  at  one  side,  and  the  imminence 
of  death,  made  the  moment  one  of  terrible  intensity — 
mysterious,  almost  solemn.  A  question  of  honor  was 
to  be  decided.  Every  one  felt  the  importance  of  the 
question;  the  less  they  understood  what  they  were 
doing,  the  deeper  seemed  the  solemnity  of  the  moment. 

Translated  by  Lizzie  B.  Gorin.    Copyright,  1907,  by  P.  F.  Collier  &  Son. 

(263) 


264  NIKOLAI    TELESHOV 

A  shot  was  fired ;  a  shiver  ran  through  all.  Vladimir 
threw  his  hands  about,  bent  his  knees,  and  fell.  He 
lay  upon  the  snow,  shot  through  the  head,  his  hands 
apart,  his  hair,  face,  and  even  the  snow  around  his 
head  covered  with  blood.  The  seconds  ran  toward 
him  and  lifted  him ;  the  doctor  certified  his  death,  and 
the  question  of  honor  was  solved.  It  only  remained 
to  announce  the  news  to  the  regiment  and  to  inform, 
as  tenderly  and  carefully  as  possible,  the  mother,  who 
was  now  left  alone  in  the  world,  for  the  boy  that  had 
been  killed  was  her  only  son.  Before  the  duel  no  one 
had  given  her  even  a  thought;  but  now  they  all  be- 
came very  thoughtful.  All  knew  and  loved  her,  and 
recognized  the  fact  that  she  must  be  prepared  by  de- 
grees for  the  terrible  news.  At  last  Ivan  Golubenko 
was  chosen  as  most  fit  to  tell  the  mother,  and  smooth 
out  matters  as  much  as  possible. 

Pelageia  Petrovna  had  just  risen,  and  was  preparing 
her  morning  tea  when  Ivan  Golubenko,  gloomy  and 
confused,  entered  the  room. 

"Just  in  time  for  tea,  Ivan  Ivanovich !"  amiably  ex- 
claimed the  old  lady,  rising  to  meet  her  guest.  "You 
have  surely  called  to  see  Vladimir !" 

"No,  I — in  passing  by — "  Golubenko  stammered, 
abashed. 

"You  will  have  to  excuse  him,  he  is  still  asleep.  He 
walked  up  and  down  his  room  the  whole  of  last 
night,  and  I  told  the  servant  not  to  wake  him,  as 
it  is  a — holy  day.  But  probably  you  came  on  urgent 
business  ?" 


THE  DUEL  266 

"No,  I  only  stepped  in  for  a  moment  in  passing — " 

"If  you  wish  to  see  him,  I  will  give  the  order  to 
wake  him  up." 

"No,  no,  do  not  trouble  yourself !" 

But  Pelageia  Petrovna,  believing  that  he  had  called 
to  see  her  son  on  some  business  or  other,  left  the  room, 
murmuring  to  herself. 

Golubenko  walked  excitedly  to  and  fro,  wringing 
his  hands,  not  knowing  how  to  tell  her  the  terrible 
news.  The  decisive  moment  was  quickly  approach- 
ing, but  he  lost  control  of  himself,  was  frightened, 
and  cursed  fate  that  had  so  mixed  him  up  with  the 
whole  business. 

"Now !  How  can  a  body  trust  you  young  people !" 
good-naturedly  exclaimed  Pelageia  Petrovna  to  her 
guest,  reentering  the  room.  "Here  I  have  been  taking 
care  not  to  make  the  least  noise  with  the  cups  and 
saucers,  and  asking  you  not  to  wake  my  boy,  and  he 
has  long  ago  departed  without  leaving  a  trace!  But 
why  do  you  not  take  a  seat,  Ivan  Ivanovich,  and  have 
a  cup  of  tea?  You  have  been  neglecting  us  terribly 
lately!" 

She  smiled  as  with  a  secret  joy,  and  added  in  a  low 
voice : 

"And  we  have  had  so  much  news  during  that 
time! —  Vladimir  surely  could  not  keep  it.  He 
must  have  told  you  all  about  it  by  this ;  for  he  is  very 
straightforward  and  open-hearted,  my  Vladimir.  I 
was  thinking  last  night,  in  my  sinful  thoughts :  'Well, 
when  my  Vladimir  paces  the  room  the  whole  night — 
that  means  that  he  is  dreaming  of  LenochkaP  That 


266  NIKOLAI   TELESHOV 

is  always  the  case  with  him :  if  he  paces  the  room  the 
whole  night,  he  will  surely  leave  to-morrow —  Ah, 
Ivan  Ivanovich,  I  only  ask  the  Lord  to  send  me  this 
joy  in  my  old  age.  What  more  does  an  old  woman 
need?  I  have  but  one  desire,  one  joy — and  it  seems  to 
me  I  shall  have  nothing  more  to  pray  for  after  Vladi- 
mir and  Lenochka  are  married.  So  joyful  and  happy 
it  would  make  me! —  I  do  not  need  anything  be- 
sides Vladimir ;  there  is  nothing  dearer  to  me  than  his 
happiness." 

The  old  lady  became  so  effected  that  she  had  to  wipe 
away  the  tears  which  came  to  her  eyes. 

"Do  you  remember,"  she  continued,  "things  did  not 
go  well  in  the  beginning — either  between  the  two  or 
on  account  of  the  money —  You  young  officers  are 
not  even  allowed  to  marry  without  bonds —  Well, 
now  everything  has  been  arranged :  I  have  obtained 
the  necessary  five  thousand  rubles  for  Vladimir,  and 
they  could  go  to  the  altar  even  to-morrow!  Yes,  and 
Lenochka  has  written  such  a  lovely  letter  to  me —  My 
heart  is  rejoicing!" 

Continuing  to  speak,  Pelageia  Petrovna  took  a  let- 
ter out  of  her  pocket,  which  she  showed  to  Golubenko, 
and  then  put  back  again. 

"She  is  such  a  dear  girl !    And  so  good !" 

Ivan  Golubenko,  listening  to  her  talk,  sat  as  if  on 
red-hot  coals.  He  wanted  to  interrupt  her  flow  of 
words,  to  tell  her  that  everything  was  at  an  end,  that 
her  Vladimir  was  dead,  and  that  in  one  short  hour 
nothing  would  remain  to  her  of  all  her  bright  hopes; 
but  he  listened  to  her  and  kept  silent.  Looking  upon 


THE  DUEL  267 

her  good,  gentle  face,  he  felt  a  convulsive  gripping  in 
his  throat. 

"But  why  are  you  looking  so  gloomy  to-day?"  the 
old  lady  at  last  asked.  "Why,  your  face  looks  as  black 
as  night!" 

Ivan  wanted  to  say  "Yes!  And  yours  will  be  the 
same  when  I  tell  you !"  but  instead  of  telling  her  any- 
thing, he  turned  his  head  away,  and  began  to  twirl  his 
mustaches. 

Pelageia  Petrovna  did  not  notice  it,  and,  wholly 
absorbed  in  her  own  thoughts,  continued : 

"I  have  a  greeting  for  you.  Lenochka  writes  that 
I  should  give  Ivan  Ivanovich  her  regards,  and  should 
compel  him  to  come  with  Vladimir  and  pay  her  a 
visit —  You  know  yourself  how  she  likes  you,  Ivan 
Ivanovich ! —  No,  it  seems  I  am  not  able  to  keep 
it  to  myself.  I  must  show  you  the  letter.  Just  see 
for  yourself  how  loving  and  sweet  it  is." 

And  Pelageia  Petrovna  again  took  out  the  package 
of  letters  from  her  pocket,  took  from  it  a  thin  letter- 
sheet,  closely  written,  and  unfolded  it  before  Ivan 
Golubenko,  whose  face  had  become  still  gloomier,  and 
he  tried  to  push  away  with  his  hand  the  extended  note, 
but  Pelageia  Petrovna  had  already  started  to  read : 

"Dear  Pelageia  Petrovna — When  will  the  time  ar- 
rive when  I  will  be  able  to  address  you,  not  as  above, 
but  as  my  dear,  sweet  mother !  I  am  anxiously  await- 
ing the  time,  and  hope  so  much  that  it  will  soon  come 
that  even  now  I  do  not  want  to  call  you  otherwise  than 
mama — " 

Pelageia  Petrovna  lifted  her  head,  and,  ceasing  to 


268  NIKOLAI    TELESHOV 

read,  looked  at  Golubenko  with  eyes  suffused  with 
tears. 

"You  see,  Ivan  Ivanovich!"  she  added;  but  seeing 
that  Golubenko  was  biting  his  mustaches,  and  that  his 
eyes  too  were  moist,  she  rose,  placed  a  trembling  hand 
upon  his  hair,  and  quietly  kissed  him  on  the  forehead. 
"Thank  you,  Ivan  Ivanovich,"  she  whispered,  greatly 
moved.  "I  always  thought  that  you  and  Vladimir 
were  more  like  brothers  than  like  simple  friends — 
Forgive  me — I  am  so  very  happy,  God  be  thanked!" 

Tears  streamed  down  her  cheeks,  and  Ivan  Golu- 
benko was  so  disturbed  and  confused  that  he  could 
only  catch  in  his  own  her  cold,  bony  hand  and  cover 
it  with  kisses;  tears  were  suffocating  him,  and  he 
could  not  utter  a  word,  but  in  this  outburst  of  moth- 
erly love  he  felt  such  a  terrible  reproach  to  himself 
that  he  would  have  preferred  to  be  lying  himself  upon 
the  field,  shot  through  the  head,  than  to  hear  himself 
praised  for  his  friendship  by  this  woman  who  would 
in  half  an  hour  find  out  the  whole  truth ;  what  would 
she  then  think  of  him?  Did  not  he,  the  friend,  the 
almost  brother,  stand  quietly  by  when  a  revolver  was 
pointed  at  Vladimir?  Did  not  this  brother  himself 
measure  the  space  between  the  two  antagonists  and 
load  the  revolvers?  All  this  he  did  himself,  did 
consciously;  and  now  this  friend  and  brother  silently 
sat  there  without  having  even  the  courage  to  fulfil 
his  duty. 

He  was  afraid ;  at  this  moment  he  despised  himself, 
but  could  not  prevail  upon  himself  to  say  even  one 
word.  His  soul  was  oppressed  by  a  strange  lack  of 


THE  DUEL 

harmony;  he  felt  sick  at  heart  and  stifling.  And  in 
the  meanwhile  time  flew — he  knew  it,  and  the  more 
he  knew  it  the  less  had  he  the  courage  to  deprive  Pela- 
geia  Petrovna  of  her  few  last  happy  moments.  What 
should  he  say  to  her?  How  should  he  prepare  her? 
Ivan  Golubenko  lost  his  head  entirely. 

He  had  had  already  time  enough  to  curse  in  his 
thoughts  all  duels,  all  quarrels,  every  kind  of  heroism, 
and  all  kinds  of  so-called  questions  of  honor,  and  he 
at  last  rose  from  his  seat  ready  to  confess  or  to  run 
away.  Silently  and  quickly  he  caught  the  hand  of 
Pelageia  Petrovna,  and  stooping  over  it  to  touch  it 
with  his  lips,  thus  hid  his  face,  over  which  a  torrent 
of  tears  suddenly  streamed  down ;  impetuously,  without 
another  thought,  he  ran  out  into  the  corridor,  snatch- 
ing his  great  coat,  and  then  out  of  the  house  without 
having  said  a  word. 

Pelageia  Petrovna  looked  after  him  with  astonish- 
ment, and  thought : 

"He  also  must  be  in  love,  poor  fellow —  Well, 
that  is  their  young  sorrow — before  happiness!"  .  .  . 

And  she  soon  forgot  him,  absorbed  in  her  dreams  of 
the  happiness  which  seemed  to  her  so  inviolable  and 
entire. 


BOLESS 
BY    MAXIM    GORKI 


Alexei  Maximovitch  Pyeshkov,  otherwise 
"Gorki"  or  the  "  Bitter  One  "  was  born  in 
1868,  in  the  house  of  his  grandfather,  the 
dyer  Kaschirin.  A  shoemaker's  apprentice 
at  five  years  of  age,  his  life  has  been  a  con- 
tinued series  of  experiments  and  struggles — at 
one  time  gardener,  at  another,  painter  of  iconsf 
scullery  boy  on  a  Volga  steamship,  shoemaker, 
sawyer  of  wood,  apple-seller,  baker,  and  rail- 
road porter.  His  first  pictures  of  the  life  of 
the  under-dog,  based  on  his  own  experiences, 
were  so  masterly  that  he  became  in  a  surpris- 
ingly short  time  one  of  the  most  popular  of 
Russian  authors. 


BOLESS 

BY  MAXIM  GORKI 

A  acquaintance  of  mine  once  told  me  the  fol- 
lowing story: 
"While  still  a  student  at  Moscow  I  hap- 
pened to  be  living  alongside  one  of  those — well,  she  was 
a  Polish  woman,  Teresa  by  name.  A  tall,  powerfully 
built  brunette  with  heavy,  bushy  eyebrows,  and  a  large 
coarse,  vulgar  face,  as  if  carved  out  with  an  ax — 
the  animal  gleam  of  her  eyes,  the  deep  bass  voice,  the 
gait  and  manners  of  a  cabman,  and  her  immense 
strength  like  that  of  a  market-woman,  inspired  me  with 
an  inexpressible  horror.  I  lived  in  the  garret  of  the 
house,  and  her  room  was  opposite  mine.  I  never 
opened  my  door  when  I  knew  that  she  was  in.  But 
this,  of  course,  happened  very  rarely.  Sometimes  I 
chanced  to  meet  her  on  the  landing,  staircase,  or  in  the 
yard,  and  she  would  look  at  me  with  a  smile  which 
seemed  to  me  cynical  and  rapacious.  Occasionally  I 
saw  her  in  her  cups,  with  bleary  eyes,  her  hair  and 
clothes  in  disorder  and  with  a  particularly  loathsome 
smile.  On  such  occasions  she  would  meet  my  eye  with 
an  impudent  stare  and  say : 

"  'How  are  you,  Pan  Student?' 1 

1  Pan  is  Polish  for  Mister. 

Translated  by  Lizzie  B.  Gorin.    Copyright,  1907,  by  P.  F.  Collier  &  Son. 

(273) 


274  MAXIM   GORKI 

"And  her  stupid  laugh  would  increase  my  dislike  for 
her  still  more.  I  would  have  liked  nothing  better  than 
to  change  my  quarters  in  order  to  get  rid  of  her  prox- 
imity, but  my  room  was  so  nice,  and  the  view  from  my 
window  was  so  fine,  the  street  below  so  quiet  and  peace- 
ful, that  I  concluded  to  endure  it. 

"One  morning  after  I  had  dressed  and  was  sprawling 
on  the  cot,  trying  to  invent  some  sort  of  an  excuse  for 
not  attending  my  classes,  the  door  of  my  room  sud- 
denly opened,  and  the  disgusting  bass  voice  of  the 
Polish  woman  sounded  from  the  threshold : 

"  'Good  morning,  Pan  Student !' 

"  'What  is  it  you  wish  ?'  I  asked  her.  I  saw  she 
looked  confused  and  had  in  her  face  a  kind  of  plead- 
ing expression,  something  unusual  with  her. 

"  'You  see,  Pan  Student,  I  came  to  beg  you  to  do 
me  a  great  favor.  Don't  refuse  me,  please!' 

"Lying  there  on  my  cot  I  thought  that  it  was  just 
some  pretext  or  other  to  make  my  further  acquaint- 
ance. Take  care,  my  boy! 

"  'You  see,  I  have  to  send  a  letter  to  my  native 
country/  she  continued  in  a  supplicating,  low,  tremu- 
lous voice. 

"'Well/  I  thought,  'the  devil  take  you.  If  you 
wish  I  will  write  it  for  you/  And  springing  to  my 
feet  I  sat  down  to  the  table,  took  some  paper  and  said : 
'Well,  come  nearer;  sit  down  and  dictate.' 

"She  came  over;  sat  down  cautiously  on  the  edge 
of  the  chair  and  looked  at  me  in  rather  a  guilty 
way. 

"  'To  whom  shall  I  write?' 


BOLESS  275 

"  'To  Boleslav  Kapshat,  in  the  town  Sventsiani,  on 
the  Warsaw  railroad.' 

"  'Well,  what  shall  I  write?    Speak/ 

"  'My  dearest  Boless,  my  heart's  delight,  my  beloved. 
May  the  Mother  of  God  protect  you!  My  golden 
heart,  why  have  you  not  written  for  so  long  a  time 
to  your  sorrowing  dove,  Teresa — J 

"I  could  hardly  keep  from  laughing.  A  sorrowing 
dove,  indeed!  Almost  six  feet  tall,  with  the  fists  of 
a  prize-fighter,  and  a  face  so  black  that  it  seemed  as 
if  the  'dove'  had  been  sweeping  chimneys  all  her  life 
and  had  never  thoroughly  washed  herself.  But  I 
somehow  kept  my  face  straight  and  asked : 

"'Who  is  this  Bolesst?' 

"  'Boless,  Pan  Student,'  she  replied  seemingly  of- 
fended because  of  my  mispronouncing  the  name. 
'He  is  my  affianced.' 

"  'Affianced !' 

"  'And  why  are  you  so  astonished  ?  Can  not  I,  a 
girl,  have  an  affianced?' 

"She — a  girl!  well,  this  beats  everything  I  ever 
heard.  Oh,  well,  who  can  tell  about  such  matters! 
Everything  is  possible  in  this  world. 

"  'And  have  you  been  long  engaged  ?' 

"  The  sixth  year.' 

'"Oh,  oh!'  I  thought  and  then  said  aloud:  'Well, 
go  ahead  with  your  letter.' 

"And  I  must  confess — so  tender  and  loving  was  this 
message — that  I  would  have  willingly  exchanged 
places  with  this  Boless  had  the  fair  correspondent  been 
any  one  else  but  Teresa. 


276  MAXIM  GORKI 

"  'I  thank  you  from  my  inmost  soul  for  your  favor, 
Pan  Student/  Teresa  said,  bowing  low.  'Can  I  in 
any  way  be  of  service  to  you?' 

"  'No,  thank  you/ 

"  'But  maybe  the  Pan's  shirts  or  trousers  need 
mending  ?' 

"This  made  me  quite  angry.  I  felt  that  this  masto- 
don in  petticoats  was  making  the  blood  mount  to  my 
cheeks,  and  I  told  her  quite  sharply  that  her  services 
were  not  required;  and  she  departed. 

"Two  weeks  or  so  passed.  One  evening  I  was  sit- 
ting at  my  window,  softly  whistling  and  thinking  hard 
how  to  get  away  from  myself.  I  felt  very  bored.  The 
weather  was  as  nasty  as  it  could  be.  To  go  out  that 
evening  was  out  of  the  question,  and  having  nothing 
better  to  do  I  began  from  sheer  ennui  a  course  of  self- 
analysis.  This  proved  dull  enough  work,  but  there 
was  nothing  else  to  do.  Suddenly  the  door  opened, 
thank  God!  Some  one  was  coming  to  see  me. 

"  'Are  you  very  busy  just  now,  Pan  Student  ?' 

"  'Teresa !  H'm — '  I  thought  I  would  have  pre- 
ferred any  one  at  all  to  her.  Then  I  said  aloud : 

"  'No,  what  is  it  you  want  now  ?' 

"  'I  wish  to  ask  the  Pan  Student  to  write  me 
another  letter/ 

"  'Very  well.  Is  it  again  to  Boless  you  wish  me  to 
write?' 

"  'No,  this  time  I  want  you  to  write  a  letter  from 
Boless  to  me/ 

"'Wha-at?' 
-  "  'I  beg  your  pardon,  Pan  Student.   How  stupid  of 


BOLESS  277 

me !  It  is  not  for  me,  this  letter,  but  for  a  friend  of 
mine,  a  man  acquaintance ;  he  has  a  fiancee.  Her  name 
is  like  mine,  Teresa.  He  does  not  know  how  to  write, 
so  I  want  the  Pan  Student  to  write  for  him  a  letter 
to  that  Teresa—' 

"I  looked  at  her.  She  seemed  very  confused  and 
frightened,  and  her  fingers  trembled.  And  though  I 
failed  at  first  to  understand  what  was  the  matter  with 
her  I  at  last  understood. 

"  'Look  here,  my  lady/  I  said  to  her.  'You  have 
been  telling  me  a  pack  of  lies.  There  are  no  Bolesses 
nor  Teresas  among  your  acquaintances.  It  is  only  a 
pretext  for  coming  in  here.  I  tell  you  outright  that 
there  is  no  use  of  coming  sneaking  around  me,  as  I 
do  not  wish  to  have  anything  to  do  with  you.  Do 
you  understand?' 

"She  grew  very  red  in  the  face  and  I  saw  that  she 
was  strangely  frightened  and  confused,  and  moved 
her  lips  so  oddly,  wishing  to  say  something,  without 
being  able  to  say  it.  And  somehow  I  began  to  think 
that  I  had  misjudged  her  a  little.  There  was  some- 
thing behind  all  this.  But  what? 

"  Tan  Student'/  she  suddenly  began,  but  broke  off, 
and  turning  toward  the  door  walked  out  of  the  room. 

"I  remained  with  a  very  unpleasant  feeling  in  my 
heart.  I  heard  her  shut  her  own  door  with  a  bang; 
evidently  the  poor  girl  was  very  angry — I  thought  the 
matter  over  and  decided  to  go  in  to  her  and  induce 
her  to  return ;  I  would  write  her  the  letter  she  wished. 

"I  entered  her  room.  She  was  sitting  at  the  table 
with  her  head  pressed  in  her  hands. 


278  MAXIM   GORKI 

"  Teresa/  I  said,  'will  you  listen  to  me  a  moment  ?' 

"Whenever  I  come  to  this  turn  of  the  story  I  always 
feel  very  awkward  and  embarrassed.  But  let  us  re- 
turn to  my  narrative.  Seeing  that  she  did  not  reply 
I  repeated: 

"  'Listen  to  me,  my  girl — ' 

"She  sprang  to  her  feet,  came  close  up  to  me,  with 
eyes  flashing,  and  placing  her  two  hands  on  my 
shoulders  she  began  to  whisper,  or  rather  to  hum  in 
her  deep  bass  voice: 

"  'Look  you  here,  Pan  Student.  What  of  it,  what 
of  it  if  there  is  no  Boless?  And  what  if  there  is  no 
Teresa?  What  difference  does  it  make  to  you?  Is 
it  so  hard  for  you  to  draw  a  few  lines  on  the  paper! 
Oh,  you!  And  I  thought  you  such  a  good  fellow, 
such  a  nice  fair-haired  little  boy.  Yes,  it  is  true — there 
is  no  Boless,  and  there  is  no  Teresa,  there  is  only  me  1 
Well,  what  of  it?' 

"  'Allow  me/  I  said  greatly  disconcerted  by  this 
reception.  'What  is  it  you  are  saying?  Is  there  no 
Boless  r 

"  'Yes,  there  is  none.    But  what  of  it?' 

"'And  no  Teresa  either?' 

"  'No,  no  Teresa  either ;  that  is,  yes,  I  am  her/ 

"I  could  not  understand  a  word.  I  stared  straight 
into  her  eyes,  trying  to  determine  which  of  us  two 
had  lost  our  reason.  And  she  returned  once  more 
to  the  table,  rummaged  for  some  time  in  the  drawer, 
and  coming  back  to  me  said  in  an  offended  tone: 

"  'Here  is  the  letter  you  wrote  for  me,  take  it  back. 
You  do  not  wish  to  write  me  a  second  one  anyway. 


Maxim   Gorki 


BOLESS  279 

Others  will  probably  be  kinder  than  you  and  would 
do  so/ 

"I  recognized  the  letter  she  held  out  to  me  as  the 
one  I  wrote  for  her  to  Boless.  Humph! 

"Took  here,  Teresa/  I  said  to  her.  'Will  you 
please  explain  to  me  what  it  all  means  ?  Why  do  you 
ask  people  to  write  letters  for  you  when  you  do  not 
find  it  necessary  even  to  post  them?* 

"Tost  them?    Where  to  ?' 

"  'Why,  to  this  Boless,  of  course/ 

"  'But  he  does  not  exist !' 

"I  really  could  not  understand  a  word.  There  was 
nothing  left  for  me  to  do  but  to  spit  and  walk  out  of 
the  room.  But  she  explained  herself. 

"  'Well,  what  of  it?'  she  began  in  an  offended  voice. 
'He  does  not  exist.  He  does  not,  so/  and  she  ex- 
tended her  hands  as  if  she  could  not  herself  clearly 
understand  why  he  did  not  exist  in  reality.  'But  I 
want  him  to.  Am  I  not  as  much  of  a  human  being 
as  the  others?  Of  course  I — I  know —  But  it  does 
no  harm  to  any  one,  that  I  am  writing  to  him — ' 

"  'Allow  me — to  whom  ?' 

"  'To  Boless,  of  course/ 

"  'But  he  does  not  exist/ 

"  'Oh,  Mother  of  God !  What  if  he  does  not  exist? 
He  does  not;  still  to  me  he  does.  And  Teresa — this 
is  myself,  and  he  replies  to  my  letters,  and  I  write  to 
him  again/ 

"I  understood.  I  felt  so  sick  at  heart,  so  ashamed  of 
myself  to  know  that  alongside  of  me,  only  three  paces 
removed,  lived  a  human  being  who  had  no  one  in  the 

13— -VOL.  i 


280  MAXIM  GORKI 

whole  world  to  love  and  sympathize  with  her,  and 
that  this  being  had  to  invent  a  friend  for  herself. 

"  'Here  you  have  written  a  letter  from  me  to  Boless, 
and  I  gave  it  to  another  to  read,  and  when  I  hear  it 
read  it  really  begins  to  seem  to  me  as  if  there  is  a 
Boless.  And  then  I  ask  that  a  letter  be  written  from 
Boless  to  Teresa — that  is  to  me.  And  when  such  a 
letter  is  written  and  is  read  to  me  then  I  am  almost 
entirely  convinced  that  there  is  a  Boless,  and  that  makes 
my  life  easier.' 

"Yes,  the  devil  take  it  all,"  continued  my  acquaint- 
ance. "To  make  a  long  story  short  I  began  from  that 
time  on  to  write  with  the  greatest  punctuality  twice  a 
week  letters  to  Boless  and  vice  versa.  I  wrote  splendid 
replies  to  her.  She  used  to  listen  to  my  reading  of 
those  epistles  and  to  weep  in  her  bass  voice.  In  return 
for  this  she  used  to  mend  my  clothes  and  darn  my 
socks. 

"Three  months  later  she  was  thrown  into  prison  for 
some  reason  or  other  and  by  now  she  must  surely 
be  dead." 

My  acquaintance  blew  the  ashes  from  his  cigarette, 
looked  thoughtfully  at  the  sky,  and  concluded: 

"Y-e-s,  the  more  a  human  being  has  drunk  of  the 
cup  of  bitterness  the  more  ardently  he  longs  for  sweet- 
ness. And  we,  enveloped  in  our  worn-out  virtues  and 
gazing  at  each  other  through  the  haze  of  self-suf- 
ficiency and  convinced  of  our  righteousness,  fail  to 
understand  it. 

"And  the  whole  affair  turns  out  very  stupid,  and 
very  cruel.  Fallen  people  we  say — but  who  and  what 


BOLESS  281 

are  those  fallen  ones?  First  of  all  they  are  human 
beings  of  the  very  same  bone  and  blood,  of  the  very 
same  flesh  and  nerves  as  ourselves.  We  have  been  told 
the  very  same  thing  for  whole  ages,  day  in  and  day 
out.  And  we  listen  and — and  the  devil  alone  knows 
how  stupid  it  all  is !  In  reality  we,  too,  are  but  fallen 
people  and  more  deeply  fallen  too,  probably — into  the 
abyss  of  self-sufficiency,  convinced  of  our  own  sin- 
lessness  and  superiority,  the  superiority  of  o.ur  own 
nerves  and  brains  over  the  nerves  and  brains  of  those 
who  are  only  less  crafty  than  we  are,  and  who  can 
not,  as  we  can,  feign  a  goodness  they  do  not  possess — 
but  enough  of  this.  It  is  all  so  old  and  stale — so  old 
and  stale  indeed  that  one  is  ashamed  to  speak  of  it — " 


THE   LOVE   OF   A   SCENE-PAINTER 


BY   "SKITALITZ" 


" Skitalitz,"  meaning  "wanderer"  is  the 
nom  de  plume  of  a  very  talented  young  author 
by  the  name  of  A .  Petrov.  He  is  about  36  years 
old  and  a  native  of  Nijni- Novgorod.  Students 
of  Russian  literature  have  generally  thought 
"iSkitalitz"  to  be  a  nom  de  plume  of  Leonid 
Andreiev,  but  that  is  incorrect.  Nearly  all 
his  works  have  been  published  by  the  "Znaniye ' ' 
Company y  which  is  backed  by  Gorki,  and  which 
until  lately  was  the  standard  of  Russian  litera- 
ture. " Skitalitz"  writes  poetry  as  well  as 
prose.  His  works  have  been  translated  into  the 
chief  European  languages,  English  included. 


THE    LOVE    OF    A   SCENE-PAINTER 

BY    "SKITALITZ" 

THE  scene-painter  Kostovsky  had  gone  on  a 
spree  just  at  a  time  when  he  should  not  have 
done   so:  preparations  were  afoot   for  the 
presentation   of   a   spectacular   play,    the   success   of 
which  wholly  depended  upon  the  beauty  of  the  decora- 
tions.   The  posters  were  already  scattered  all  over  the 
city;  it  was  necessary  to  hurry  forward  the  different 
arrangements    and   to    paint   the   new    scenery,   and 
now  something  happened  that  the  stage-manager  had 
feared  all  along :  Kostovsky  went  on  a  spree. 

This  always  occurred  just  at  a  time  when  he  was 
indispensable.  As  if  an  evil  spirit  prompted  him  just 
at  such  time  and  the  forbidden  liquid  became  more 
tempting  than  ever,  he  felt  an  unconquerable  longing 
to  experience  a  feeling  of  guilt,  to  act  against  the 
will  of  every  one,  against  his  own  interests,  but 
certainly  not  against  the  promptings  of  the  Evil  One, 
who  had,  for  the  time  being,  wholly  taken  possession 
of  him. 

His  impetuous  nature,  full  of  talent,  could  not  ex- 
ist, it  seemed,  without  powerful  impressions — and  he 
found  them  only  in  carousing.  The  days  of  revelry 
were  for  him  always  full  of  interesting  encounters 
and  strange  adventures  peculiar  only  to  himself.  But 

Translated  by  Lizzie  B.  Gorin.    Copyright,  1907,  by  P.  F.  Collier  A  Son. 

(285) 


286  "SKITALITZ" 

as  soon  as  he  came  to  his  senses  and  sobered  up,  he 
took  to  his  work  with  a  sort  of  furious  energy :  every- 
thing around  him  at  such  times  was  at  a  fever-heat  of 
excitement  and  he  himself  was  burning  with  the  fire 
of  inspiration.  Only  because  he  was  a  wonderful 
scene-painter,  a  genius  of  his  craft,  he  was  not  dis- 
charged. He  hurt  the  reputation  of  the  company  with 
his  scandals,  adventures,  and  careless,  soiled  dress,  his 
whole  plebeian  appearance;  but  for  all  that,  from 
under  his  brush  came  the  most  exquisite,  artistically 
executed  decorations,  for  which  the  public  often  called 
the  "decorator"  before  the  curtain,  and  about  which 
the  press  remarked  afterward. 

Behind  the  scenes  the  members  of  the  company  kept 
aloof  from  Kostovsky,  and  no  one  wanted  to  be  on  in- 
timate terms  with  him;  the  chorus-singers  "drank," 
too,  but  considered  themselves  of  a  higher  breed  than 
the  workman-decorator,  and  did  not  want  him  in  their 
society,  and  the  chorus-girls  and  ballet-dancers  treated 
him  like  some  sexless  being,  kept  aloof  from  him,  and 
looked  at  him  with  a  grimace  of  disgust.  He,  on  his 
part,  also  took  little  interest  in  them. 

He  admired  only  Julia,  a  little  ballet-dancer,  and 
even  her  he  loved  only  as  an  artist,  when  she  danced 
on  the  stage  enveloped  in  the  electric  rays  of  the  reflec- 
tor which  he  himself  manipulated.  He  liked  the  turn 
of  her  pretty  little  head,  and  he  admired  her,  distin- 
guishing her  in  the  crowd  of  the  other  ballet-dancers 
by  an  exceptionally  bright  ray.  "In  life"  he  never 
spoke  to  her,  and  she  pretended  that  she  did  not  notice 
his  attentions  at  all. 


THE  LOVE  OF  A  SCENE-PAINTER  287 

Living  in  a  strange  solitude,  without  love  or  friends, 
not  having  the  sympathy  of  any  one  in  the  company, 
but  being  at  the  same  time  "indispensable"  to  it,  he 
experienced  an  immeasurable  feeling  of  "offense/'  and 
caroused,  as  happened  now  when  he  was  so  badly 
"needed." 

The  stout  stage-manager  stood  on  the  stage  after 
the  rehearsal  and  spoke  about  Kostovsky  with  the 
business-manager  of  the  troupe,  an  elegant,  dark-com- 
plexioned man  of  the  Hebrew  type. 

The  broad,  fat  face  of  the  stage-manager  expressed 
restrained  wrath,  anxiety,  and  sorrow. 

"Well,  just  tell  me,  please,"  he  spoke  tearfully,  while 
in  his  heart  a  storm  was  raging,  "what  am  I  to  do 
now?  What  am  I  to  do  n-o-w?" 

And,  crossing  his  fat  hands  helplessly  on  his  paunch, 
he  wrath  fully  and  sorrowfully  looked  at  his  com- 
panion. 

"Hoggishness,  that  is  all!"  replied  the  business- 
manager.  "He  started  to  drink  on  the  steamer  when 
we  were  coming  here  and  has  not  sobered  up  yet. 
And  do  you  know,  he  fell  into  the  sea  on  the  way 
here !  That  was  a  joke.  I  was  suddenly  awakened  by 
the  cry :  'Man  overboard !'  I  sprang  to  my  feet.  'Who 
is  it?'  'Kostovsky!'  'Ah,  Kostovsky,  and  I  thought 
it  was — some  one  else !'  And  I  again  went  to  bed  as 
if  nothing  had  happened,  because,  in  my  opinion,  Kos- 
tovsky is  not  a  man,  but  a  pig." 

"How  did  he  come  to  fall  into  the  water?  Was  he 
drunk?" 

"Of  course  he  must  have  been  drunk.     He  fell 


288  "SKITALITZ" 

asleep  on  the  deck  and  was  forgotten.  The  vessel 
lurched  and  he  rolled  over." 

"Ho-ho-ho!"  the  stage-manager's  deep  laugh  rang 
out. 

"He-he-he!"  chorused  the  business-manager  in  his 
thin,  piping  laugh.  "But  what  is  still  funnier,  the  sea 
would  have  none  of  him,  and  he  was  fished  out  even 
before  he  had  time  to  become  entirely  awake.  A 
wonderful  accident,  really!  The  sea  even  refused  to 
swallow  such  a  rascal!" 

"But  where  is  he  now?"  inquired  the  stage-man- 
ager after  he  had  ceased  laughing,  and  a  little  softened 
by  the  story  of  Kostovsky's  mishap  at  sea. 

"Here.  He  is  sobering  up  a  little  in  the  wardrobe. 
They  searched  for  him  all  over  town,  and  at  last  they 
found  the  darling  in  a  tavern  engaged  in  a  hot  battle 
with  some  apprentice;  they  did  not  even  allow  him  to 
finish  the  fistic  argument,  but  pulled  them  apart,  and 
brought  him  here.  Now  he  is  nursing  a  beautiful 
black  eye." 

"Bring  him  in  here,  the  rascal." 

The  young  man  ran  briskly  across  the  stage  and 
vanished  behind  the  scenes.  And  immediately  the 
empty  theatre  loudly  resounded  with  his  piping 
voice : 

"Kostovsky !    Kostovsky !" 

"He  will  come  at  once,"  the  man  said  on  returning, 
and  winked  his  eye  as  if  wishing  to  say :  "The  comedy 
will  start  immediately." 

A  slow,  unsteady  step  was  heard  approaching,  and 
upon  the  stage  appeared  the  man  who  had  caused  so 


THE  LOVE  OF  A   SCENE-PAINTER  289 

much  bad  blood  and  ill-feeling  and  whom  the  sea  would 
not  accept 

He  was  of  middle  height,  sinuous,  muscular,  and 
slightly  round-shouldered,  dressed  in  a  coarse  blue 
blouse  full  of  paint  spots  and  girded  by  a  leather 
strap;  his  trousers,  bespattered  with  paint,  he  wore 
tucked  into  his  tall  boots.  Kostovsky  had  the  appear- 
ance of  a  common  workman,  with  long,  muscular 
hands  like  those  of  a  gorilla,  and  probably  of  great 
strength;  his  far  from  good-looking  but  very  charac- 
teristic face,  with  its  prominent  cheek-bones  and  long, 
reddish  mustaches,  breathed  of  power.  From  under 
knitted  brows  gloomily,  and  at  the  same  time  good- 
naturedly,  looked  out  a  pair  of  large  blue  eyes.  The 
main  peculiarity  of  this  face  was  an  expression  of  im- 
petuousness  and  energy;  his  left  eye  was  embellished 
by  a  large  discoloration — the  mark  of  a  well-aimed 
blow — and  his  coarse,  reddish  locks  bristled  out  rebel- 
liously  in  all  directions.  On  the  whole,  Kostovsky 
impressed  one  as  a  bold,  untamable  being. 

He  bowed,  at  once  shamefacedly  and  proudly,  and 
did  not  offer  any  one  his  hand. 

"What  are  you  up  to  now,  Kostovsky?  Eh?"  the 
stage-manager  spoke  in  a  freezingly  cold  manner. 
"The  play  is  announced  for  to-morrow  and  we 
shall  have  to  revoke  it!  What  are  you  doing  me 
all  this  injury  for?  Is  it  honest  of  you?  Why 
are  you  drinking?  Just  look  what  an  ornament  you 
have  under  the  eye!  You  ought  to  be  ashamed  of 
yourself!" 

Kostovsky  took  a  step  backward,  thrust  his  long 


290  "SKITALITZ" 

fingers  through  his  locks,  and  suddenly  became  alight 
with  a  passionate,  indomitable  emotion : 

"Mark  Lukich!"  he  exclaimed  in  a  dull,  husky,  but 
convincing  voice :  "I  drank !  That  is  true !  But  now 
— basta!  I  will  make  everything  necessary!  To-day 
is  Saturday  and  there  is  no  performance,  I  shall  not 
go  out  of  here  till  to-morrow !  I  shall  work  the  whole 
night  through !  I !  I —  Ach,  thou  great  God  1" 

Kostovsky  waved  his  hands  in  the  air,  and  it  seemed 
that  he  was  suddenly  possessed  with  a  desperate 
energy.  He  longed  for  work  as  for  expiation. 

"But  do  you  understand  what  there  is  to  be  done? 
Entirely  new  scenery  must  be  painted.  And  painted 
good!  Do  you  understand?  Painted  g-o-o-d!" 

"I  shall  paint  it  well,  no  fear  of  that!"  exclaimed 
Kostovsky  enthusiastically,  once  more  running  all  his 
ten  fingers  through  his  coarse  locks.  After  musingly 
pacing  the  stage  for  some  moments,  he  stopped  before 
the  stage-manager. 

"Please  tell  me  all  about  it,  what  sort  of  scenery  is 
wanted,  and  for  what  it  is  needed,"  he  said  in  a  more 
calm  voice. 

"You  see,  this  will  be  the  second  act.  Two  people 
are  lost  in  the  steppe  at  night.  The  place  must  be 
a  dull,  obscure  wilderness,  a  terrible  fear  possesses 
them,  and  supernatural  things  take  place  there. 
You  must  paint  for  us  this  steppe ;  everything  must  be 
in  it:  the  impression  of  remoteness,  the  darkness  and 
clouds,  and  so  vividly  that  a  shiver  of  dread  should 
run  through  the  public." 

"That  is  enough !"  interrupted  Kostovsky.    "I  shall 


THE   LOVE   OF   A   SCENE-PAINTER  291 

paint  you  the  steppe.  I  will  work  the  whole  night  on 
the  stage  by  lamplight  and  to-morrow  everything  will 
be  ready.  Have  you  the  necessary  material?" 

"Everything  is  ready,  all  that  is  necessary  is  to 
work !"  put  in  the  business-manager. 

But  Kostovsky  already  felt  the  inspiration  of  the 
decorator.  He  turned  away  from  his  superiors,  no 
longer  even  aware  of  their  presence,  and,  standing  in 
the  centre  of  the  stage,  he  shouted  in  a  powerful,  im- 
perious voice: 

"Here,  Pavel,  hurry  there!  Vanka,  here  with  you! 
Lively  there,  you  sons  of  the  devil,  Kostovsky  means 
to  work  now!" 

The  stage-workman  Pavel  and  the  apprentice  Vanka, 
a  nimble,  slouchy  fellow,  passionately  devoted  to  the 
stage,  came  rushing  in  and  immediately  began  to 
bustle  about,  spreading  the  enormous  canvas  and 
bringing  forward  the  paints  and  brushes. 

"Well,"  said  the  business-manager  to  the  stage- 
manager,  "thank  God,  he  has  come  to  his  senses  at 
last ;  we  will  not  be  compelled  now  to  revoke  the  play ! 
Let  us  go  and  have  our  dinner.  He  must  not  be  inter- 
fered with  now." 

The  whole  night  the  stage  was  brightly  illuminated, 
and  in  the  empty  theatre  reigned  the  quiet  of  the  grave. 
Only  the  tread  of  Kostovsky  could  be  heard  as,  with 
his  long  brush  in  his  hand,  he  continually  approached 
and  retreated  from  his  canvas;  all  around  stood  pails 
and  pots  of  paint. 

He  made  rapid  strides  in  his  work.  With  a 
blue  mark  under  his  eye,  dirty  with  paint,  with 


292  "SKITAUTZ" 

bristling  hair  and  mustaches,  he  accomplished  with 
his  enormous  brush  a  titanic  kind  of  work.  His  eyes 
were  ablaze  and  his  face  looked  inspired.  He  created. 
At  eleven  o'clock  in  the  morning  the  whole  com- 
pany, which  had  gathered  for  the  rehearsal,  stood 
agape  before  the  creation  of  Kostovsky.  The  actors, 
chorus-singers,  male  and  female,  and  the  ballet-dancers 
gazed  at  the  enormous  canvas  from  the  stage  and 
afterward  from  the  orchestra,  and  freely  expressed 
their  opinions.  The  whole  background  of  the  stage 
was  occupied  by  the  gigantic  picture.  It  was  the 
steppe.  On  the  edge  it  was  overgrown  with  tall, 
dense  burdocks  and  other  steppe-grass,  farther  could 
be  seen  a  desolate-looking  steppe-grave,  thickly  over- 
grown with  grass,  and  still  farther  unrolled  the  cheer- 
less, dull  steppe  with  a  wonderful,  immeasurable  per- 
spective, a  steppe  out  of  the  fairy-tales,  out  of  the  times 
of  knighthood — pathless  and  unpeopled.  It  seemed  to 
the  onlookers  that  suddenly  the  famous  Knight  of  the 
Russian  fairy-tale,  Ilia  Muromets,  would  appear  from 
behind  the  mound  and  would  bawl  out :  "Is  there  a  live 
man  in  this  field?"  But  the  bleak  steppe  was  silent, 
terribly,  gloomily  silent;  looming  up  against  the  sky 
were  dark  grave-mounds,  and  sinister,  black,  bushy 
clouds  were  gathering.  There  was  no  end  to  these 
clouds  and  grave-mounds,  and  the  measureless  vista 
of  this  steppe.  The  whole  picture  breathed  gloom  and 
oppressed  the  soul.  It  seemed  as  if  something  terrible 
would  immediately  take  place,  that  the  grave-mounds 
and  the  clouds  had  a  symbolic  meaning,  that  they  were 
in  a  way  animated  True,  when  one  stepped  up  too 


THE  LOVE  OF   A   SCENE-PAINTER  293 

close  to  Kostovsky's  scenery  he  could  not  make  out 
anything :  he  saw  before  him  a  mere  daub  and  splash 
made  with  the  large  brush — hasty,  bold  strokes,  and 
nothing  more.  But  the  farther  the  spectator  retreated 
from  the  canvas  the  clearer  appeared  the  picture  of  the 
enormous  steppe,  spiritualized  by  a  powerful  mood, 
and  the  more  attentively  he  looked  at  it,  all  the  more 
was  he  possessed  by  the  feeling  of  uncanny  dread. 

"Well,  what  do  you  say  to  this!"  hummed  the 
crowd.  "Devilish  fellow,  Kostovsky!  A  real  talent! 
Just  see  what  deviltry  he  has  let  loose!" 

"Well,  that  is  nothing!"  he  replied  naively.  "We 
are  simple  workmen:  when  we  work  we  work,  but 
when  once  we  are  bent  on  having  a  good  time  we 
take  our  fill — that  is  how  we  are!" 

They  all  laughed  at  him,  but  they  spoke  about  him 
the  whole  day:  he  had  never  succeeded  so  well  as  at 
this  time. 

And  he  continued  at  his  work;  it  seemed  as  if  his 
energy  had  only  just  now  become  aroused.  While  the 
rehearsal  was  going  on,  he  painted  a  "Hindu  Temple," 
shouted  at  his  helpers,  and  in  the  heat  of  inspiration 
even  railed  at  the  stage-manager,  who  wanted  to  draw 
his  attention  to  something. 

He  was  untamable,  irresponsible,  and  great.  Dirtier 
and  more  unkempt  than  ever,  he  strutted  through  his 
workroom  at  the  back  of  the  stage,  painted  the  superbly 
beautiful,  fantastic  "Temple,"  and  lived  through  the 
happiness  of  inspiration.  His  whole  appearance,  ex- 
cited by  the  sleepless  night  full  of  inspiration,  was  the 
embodiment  of  power  and  passionate  energy :  the  pale 


294  "SKITALITZ" 

face  with  the  blue  discoloration  under  the  eye,  the 
bristling  locks,  and  the  flaming  eyes  that  seemed  to 
emanate  blue  rays — all  this  showed  that  the  inspiration 
of  Kostovsky  did  not  flash  up  for  a  moment,  but  that 
it  burned  long  and  steadily  with  an  inexhaustible, 
even  light. 

He  was  wholly  engrossed  by  his  "Temple,"  when  he 
suddenly  felt  close  to  him  some  one's  light  step,  and 
an  exquisite  perfume  was  wafted  to  where  he  stood. 
He  turned  around — before  him  stood  Julia. 

She  wore  the  costume  of  a  ballet-dancer,  that  is,  al- 
most no  costume,  as  she  had  to  dance  at  the  rehearsal. 
She  was  a  pretty  little  thing  in  pink  tights,  white 
satin  slippers,  and  short  gauze  skirts ;  her  high,  strong 
bosom  heaved  tranquilly  and  peacefully,  and  her 
creamy  face  smiled.  Her  black,  almond-shaped,  lan- 
guid eyes  looked  tenderly  and  promisingly  at  Kos- 
tovsky. In  the  costume  of  a  ballet-dancer  she  looked 
like  a  being  just  out  of  fairyland,  and  it  was  difficult  to 
imagine  a  being  so  totally  different  from  Kostovsky 
as  was  this  fairy.  She  was  all  exquisite  grace  and 
litheness ;  he,  ungainly,  dark,  and  big,  stood  before  her 
abashed  and  confused,  and  gazed  at  her  with  delight 
and  admiration;  the  long  brush  was  lowered  to  the 
floor  to  her  feet. 

Kostovsky  forgot  his  work,  and  Julia  broke  into  a 
ringing  laugh,  and,  sparkling  with  her  sharp  little 
teeth,  she  came  nearer  to  him  with  her  light,  graceful 
step,  and,  stretching  out  to  him  her  beautiful  little 
hand,  she  boldly  said :  "How  do  you  do,  Kostovsky  I" 


THE  LOVE   OF   A   SCENE-PAINTER  295 

Several  months  passed.  The  enormous  opera-house 
was  crowded  to  the  doors.  Behind  the  scenes  they 
were  hot  at  work,  crowding  one  another,  bustling  and 
pushing.  Through  the  curtain  came  the  hum  of  the 
public  and  the  solemn  waves  of  the  orchestra  music. 

The  stage-workmen  ran  about  like  men  possessed, 
adjusting  and  shifting  the  scenery,  and  from  some- 
where in  the  darkness  above  rose  and  descended 
enormous  canvases,  the  walls  of  temples,  steeples, 
woods,  and  sea-waves. 

All  this  work  was  superintended  by  Kostovsky.  He 
was  unrecognizable,  his  face  looked  years  younger  and 
brighter,  his  blue  eyes  were  alight  with  joy  and  hap- 
piness, his  feet  were  encased  in  shiny  patent-leather 
boots,  and  he  wore  a  well-fitting,  elegant  velvet  jacket; 
his  fair  locks  were  no  longer  bristling. 

"Let  down  the  bottom  of  the  sea!"  he  commanded 
in  a  ringing  voice. 

The  enormous  canvas  on  which  was  depicted  the 
bottom  of  the  sea  was  lowered.  The  decorator  re- 
treated a  few  steps  and  once  more  looked  lovingly  at 
the  "sea  bottom."  This  was  his  latest  creation. 

"Listen,  Pavel!"  he  shouted,  "when  the  mermaids 
begin  to  swim,  you  will  let  Julia  come  first  and  lower 
than  all  the  rest ;  let  her  down  to  the  very  bottom !" 

"It  shall  be  done!" 

At  last  everything  was  ready  for  the  mermaids  to 
swim  through  the  bottom  of  the  sea.  Kostovsky  was 
already  on  the  elevation,  with  the  electric  reflector 
turned  on  the  stage;  he  himself  had  to  manage  the 
lighting  up  of  the  scenery  and  the  actors.  The  "Bot- 


296  "SKITALITZ" 

torn  of  the  Sea"  became  suffused  with  a  tender,  poetic 
light.  This  greenish-silvery  light  seemed  to  penetrate 
the  water  as  if  with  the  bright  sunlit  day  above.  And 
here  at  the  bottom  everything  lived,  knowing  no  light. 
In  the  distance  stood  a  coral-reef,  and  everywhere  half- 
alive  vegetation  greedily  stretched  its  branches  over 
the  water,  and  all  around  floated  slimy  medusoe. 

Underneath,  the  first  thing  to  meet  the  eye  was  the 
yawning  mouth  of  a  submarine  cave,  from  which  were 
thrust  out  the  arms  of  a  hideous,  enormous  devil-fish 
that,  without  moving,  glared  out  of  its  two  green  eyes. 

And  from  amid  this  primitive,  abnormal  world  ap- 
peared a  wonderfully  beautiful  woman  with  flowing 
hair  and  bare  shoulders,  with  the  form  of  a  fish  below 
the  waist,  covered  with  shining,  silvery  scales.  The 
loveliness  of  her  head  and  the  beauty  of  her  shoulders 
was  enhanced  by  the  ugliness  of  the  submarine  world. 

She  swam  like  a  fish,  easily  and  gracefully,  turning 
and  twisting,  her  scales  sparkling  and  glittering;  she 
was  followed  by  another  mermaid,  a  whole  school. 

Lighted  by  the  rays  of  the  reflector,  at  the  will  of 
Kostovsky,  they  became  marvelous,  fairy-like  beauties. 

But  they  were  all  eclipsed  by  one.  She  swam  lower 
than  all,  and  was  distinguished  from  all  by  the  radi- 
ance of  her  beauty.  She  was  lighted  better  and  more 
alluringly  than  the  rest,  the  tenderest  rays  of  the  re- 
flector warmly  and  lovingly  fell  upon  her,  ran  after 
her,  and  lovingly  caressed  her  graceful  body,  adding  a 
seductive  expression  to  her  face  and  making  her  eyes 
shine  like  stars.  She  seemed  to  be  created  of  light, 
and  this  light  changed  with  every  moment,  and  she 


THE  LOVE  OF  A  SCENE-PAINTER  297 

changed  with  it,  garbed  in  thousands  of  different  tints. 
A  veritable  queen  of  the  deep.  She  felt  that  the  en- 
chanter decorator  had  bestowed  on  her  a  marvelous 
loveliness,  that  the  delighted  public  was  ready  to  break 
forth  into  a  storm  of  applause  in  honor  of  this  beauty, 
and,  swimming  close  to  the  decorator,  she  gratefully 
waved  her  sparkling  fish-tail,  over  which,  by  the  will 
of  the  generous,  enamored  decorator,  suddenly  fell  a 
shower  of  many-colored  diamonds. 

She  swam  behind  the  scenes,  and  he,  rising  on  tip- 
toe and  smiling  happily,  sent  her  an  airy  kiss  from 
behind  the  reflector. 

All  in  the  company  knew  of  this  love  affair  behind 
the  scenes:  Julia  always  left  the  theatre  in  the  com- 
pany of  Kostovsky,  they  stayed  at  the  same  hotel,  and 
his  room  adjoined  hers.  Kostovsky  was  always  with 
her,  enjoying  to  the  full  the  pleasure  that  the  con- 
templation of  her  beauty  afforded  him,  while  she  will- 
ingly allowed  him  to  pay  court  to  her.  He  followed 
her  like  a  faithful  dog,  and  waited  long  and  patiently 
at  the  door  of  the  women's  dressing-room  while  she 
leisurely  removed  the  make-up  from  her  face,  dressed, 
and  chatted  with  the  other  girls. 

This  time,  after  the  conclusion  of  the  performance, 
he  had  to  wait  particularly  long  at  the  foot  of  the 
stairs;  one  after  another  the  closely  wrapped  little 
figures  came  down  the  stairs  and  went  off  with  the 
men  who  were  awaiting  them,  just  as  the  scene-painter 
was  awaiting  Julia.  But  "she"  was  not  to  be  seen. 

Sad  and  troubled,  Kostovsky  stood  at  his  place,  look- 
ing about  him  indifferently  and  continually  throwing 


298  v  "SKITALITZ" 

expectant  glances  at  the  door  of  the  dressing-room. 
And  the  door  opened  less  and  less  often,  as  almost  all 
the  women  had  already  departed. 

At  last  Rosa,  a  vivacious  Jewish  chorus  girl,  came 
out.  "What  are  you  standing  here  for  ?"  she  drawled, 
lifting  her  brows  in  surprise  and  making  a  sly  grimace. 
"I  am  the  very  last  one,  there  is  no  one  else,  and  Julia 
left  long  ago.  It  seems  you  did  not  notice  when  she 
went  out." 

"What,  is  she  gone?"  asked  Kostovsky,  and  on  his 
face  appeared  a  pained  expression. 

"Ha-ha-ha!"  Rosa's  silvery  laugh  rang  out;  "very 
simple,  she  left  before  the  end  of  the  performance  in 
the  company  of  her  new  admirer,  and  you,  my  sweet 
one,  have  tired  her  long  ago !" 

The  scene-painter  stepped  back  and  caught  himself 
by  the  head.  "It  is  not  true !"  he  said  in  a  dull  voice. 

"Well,  I  like  that!"  Rosa  said  excitedly,  "and  it  is 
your  own  doing,  too!  She  only  wished  to  be  pushed 
ahead.  You  always  light  her  up  so  that  the  whole 
front  row  is  after  her!  She  has  made  a  career  for 
herself,  and  does  not  need  you  any  longer."  And  Rosa 
ran  laughingly  down  the  stairs. 

Kostovsky  stood  long  motionless  on  the  same  place, 
and,  enveloped  in  the  quiet  and  darkness  of  the  empty 
theatre,  he  felt  that,  little  by  little,  then  stronger  and 
stronger,  his  breast  was  filled  with  acute  pain. 

When  Kostovsky  knocked  at  the  door  of  Julia's 
room  she  received  him  very  coldly.  Her  moist 
eyes  looked  indifferently  and  tranquilly  from  under 
her  thick,  black  eyelashes;  her  black  hair,  care- 


THE  LOVE  OF  A  SCENE-PAINTER  299 

lessly  pinned,  lay  like  a  luxurious  crown,  and  two 
thick  curls  fell  over  her  full  cheeks.  She  wore 
a  wide  kimono  of  some  cheap  sheer  material,  and 
light  slippers. 

"Julia,"  whispered  Kostovsky,  breathless  with  ex- 
citement. 

"Sit  down!"  she  said  carelessly,  not  noticing  any- 
thing especial  in  his  appearance,  and  added :  "And  try 
to  occupy  yourself  with  something.  I  really  haven't 
any  time  to  entertain  you/' 

"Julia!" 

She  half-leaned  upon  the  bed  and  became  wholly 
absorbed  in  her  book. 

He  was  irritated  by  this  woman's  unnecessary  art- 
fulness; why  use  these  artifices,  which  offended  him 
the  more,  because  she  could  easily  tell  him  outright 
and  settle  it? 

"Julia,  you  speak  to  me  as  to  a  visitor  who  has  to 
be  entertained?  Why  this  ceremony?" 

"There  is  no  ceremony  about  it!"  she  replied  in  a 
displeased  tone.  "It — simplifies  our  relations,  that  is 
all :  every  one  occupies  himself — with  what  he  pleases. 
I  am — reading.  And  you  occupy  yourself  with  some- 
thing else,  and  if  you  feel  ennui — go  away." 

She  was  driving  him  out. 

Kostovsky  was  beside  himself  with  rage  at  this  "sim- 
plifying of  relations,"  and  at  her  sudden  leaving  off 
of  the  familiar  "thou"  and  adopting  the  more  conven- 
tional "you." 

"Listen  to  me,"  he  said,  in  a  voice  full  of  irritation, 
and  likewise  availing  himself  of  the  term  "you."  "I 


800  "SKITALITZ" 

wish  to  speak  to  you,  and  will  not  wait  till  you  finish 
reading." 

She  did  not  reply,  and,  half-reclining  on  the  bed, 
she  continued  looking  at  the  open  book.  A  painful 
silence  ensued. 

Kostovsky  sat  at  the  table  and  quietly  gazed  at 
Julia.  Leaning  on  her  elbows  on  the  pillow,  she  had 
thrown  herself  into  a  graceful,  kittenish  pose,  her  little 
feet  encased  in  their  tiny,  light  slippers,  impishly  hid 
under  the  folds  of  her  kimono,  and  from  their  hiding- 
place  teased  Kostovsky.  The  lovely  curves  of  her 
body  showed  through  the  thin  dress,  the  wide  sleeves 
left  visible  her  chubby  arms  to  the  elbow ;  and  she  was, 
as  a  whole,  so  sweet  and  graceful  that  Kostovsky, 
hating  her  at  this  moment,  longed  to  take  her  in 
his  arms. 

He  turned  his  eyes  away  from  her.  The  room  was 
poorly  furnished — a  cheap  hotel  room,  lighted  by  elec- 
tricity. Near  the  door  stood  the  wardrobe  with  her 
costumes,  in  the  centre  the  table,  and  near  the  window 
the  dresser  and  a  mirror.  On  a  rack  close  to  the  en- 
trance into  the  room  hung  her  plush  jacket,  trimmed 
with  tiny  cats'  paws.  He  looked  long  and  with  hatred 
at  this  jacket  with  its  cats'  paws,  and  recalled  how 
amiably  she  used  to  meet  him  before,  forcing  him  into 
a  chair  and  smoothing  his  bristly  locks  tenderly,  and 
how  pleasant  it  was  to  feel  the  tender  touch  of  the 
little  hand. 

She  quickly  flung  away  her  book,  and  angrily  rose 
from  the  bed.  "You  have  nothing  to  speak  to  me 
about!"  she  exclaimed,  reddening.  "Everything  has 


THE  LOVE  OF   A   SCENE-PAINTER  801 

been  said  already !  It  is  time  to  end  this  spoony  love 
affair,  this  sentimental  driveling!" 

"Spooniness — sentimental  driveling,"  he  bitterly  re- 
peated. "Julia!  What  has  come  between  us?" 

"There  is  nothing  between  us,  nothing  could  be!" 
she  energetically  declared.  "We  have  nothing  in  com- 
mon— nothing  whatsoever — and — we  must  put  an  end 
to  our  acquaintanceship!" 

She  gave  the  table  a  push  and  sat  down  in  the  dark- 
est corner  of  the  room,  looking  at  him  from  there  with 
her  large,  black  eyes.  Her  eyes  had  always  the  same 
expression;  no  matter  at  whom  they  looked,  they 
seemed  to  be  inviting  and  promising  something  with- 
out the  knowledge  of  their  possessor.  Spurning  him, 
she  at  the  same  time  lured  him  on. 

"I  understand !"  he  spoke  sadly,  and  pushed  his 
chair  close  to  her.  "You  wish  to  part  with  me;  they 
say  you  have  another — some  one  from  the  first  row 
of  the  orchestra.  Well,  let  us  part.  But  why  all  this 
subterfuge  and  why  quarrel?  I  do  not  wish  that  all 
this  should  end  so  badly — with  a  quarrel.  I  wish  at 
least  to  keep  the  memory.  But,  Julia,  know  that  all 
those — from  the  first  row — despise  you — humiliate  you 
—love  in  you  only  the  flesh.  And  I —  Why  I — 1-o-v-e 
you,  the  devil  take  you,  accursed  one!" 

He  grasped  her  arm  above  the  elbow  and  shook  her 
with  his  large  paws. 

"Phui!  How  rude!  He  abuses  me!  Let  me 
go!  Let  me  go,  I  say;  you  will  dislocate  my  arm! 
Ruffian!" 

She  longed  to  quarrel  with  him.     And  he,  on  his 


302  "SKITALITZ" 

part,  felt  an  influx  of  ferocious  wrath,  a  passionate 
longing  to  tear,  lacerate,  beat,  and  throw  her  out. 

He  grasped  her  arms  still  tighter.  His  eyes  turned 
a  greenish  color,  his  teeth  gave  out  a  grating  sound. 

"Ai !"  she  cried.    But  he  fell  on  his  knees  before  her. 

"Sweetest,  dearest,  my  golden  one,  my  sun,  my 
joy!  You  are  my — all;  all  my  thoughts,  all  my  feel- 
ings, everything  is  for  you,  from  you,  and — about 
you!  Oh,  I  am  rude;  I  am — a  brute,  but  I  love 
you!  Without  you  there  is  no  life  for  me;  I  will 
again  sink  to  the  bottom  from  which  you  raised  me! 
Well,  darling,  well,  my  happiness,  forgive  me. 
You  see  I  kiss  your  hands,  your  dress.  Forgive !" 

And  on  his  bent  knees  this  big,  powerful  man  caught 
the  tiny  hands  of  the  tiny  woman  and  kissed  them, 
kissed  her  dress,  and  wept. 

When  he  lifted  his  head  he  suddenly  caught  her 
glance  directed  toward  him,  a  strange,  attentive  glance. 
In  this  glance  of  her  moist,  black  eyes  there  was  no 
love,  nor  pity  for  him;  nor  even  contempt,  but  some- 
thing offensive,  resembling  curiosity,  but  more  heart- 
less than  curiosity.  It  was  the  curiosity  of  a  vivisec- 
tionist,  the  curiosity  he  exhibits  when  dissecting  a  live 
rabbit,  or  that  of  a  naturalist  when  he  sticks  his  pin 
through  a  rare  beetle,  and  looks  on  at  its  contortions. 
He  even  now  interested  her — but  only  as  something 
primitive,  original :  his  sharp  transitions  from  rudeness 
to  tenderness,  the  strangeness  of  the  declaration,  the 
sudden  fits  of  ferocious  rage  only  to  humble  himself 
before  her  and  to  weep  a  moment  later — all  this  was 
very  interesting. 


THE  LOVE  OF  A   SCENE-PAINTER  303 

But  Kostovsky's  mind  was  suddenly  illuminated,  as 
if  by  lightning :  he  understood  all  at  once  the  real  rela- 
tion of  Julia  toward  him,  and  felt  that  he  had  received 
a  deadly  wound  at  her  hands,  that  she  was  only  inter- 
ested in  him,  but  she  had  never  loved  him,  could  not 
love  him;  that  she  was  a  being  from  a  world  other 
than  his — that  he  was  a  total  stranger  to  her.  The 
words  died  away  in  his  heart.  He  grew  silent,  caught 
his  hat,  and  without  another  glance  at  Julia  rushed 
out  of  the  room  and  the  hotel. 

Kostovsky  found  himself  suddenly  in  a  dirty  dram- 
shop, where  his  steps  had  almost  unconsciously  led 
him.  He  had  not  drunk  for  a  long  time,  but  now  he 
felt  a  terrible  necessity  for  the  dramshop,  the  noise,  the 
clinking  of  the  glasses,  and  the  smell  of  bad  vodka. 

He  sat  in  a  corner  of  the  dramshop,  alone,  at  a  small 
table.  Before  him  stood  a  large  bottle  of  vodka  and 
the  noxious  side-dishes  peculiar  to  such  resorts.  The 
dirty  table-cloth  was  stained  with  vodka  and  beer,  and 
the  kerosene  hanging-lamp  dimly  lighted  the  room, 
rilled  with  tipsy  people.  They  were  all  bawling,  drink- 
ing, and  clinking  their  glasses ;  the  pale-faced  waiters 
ran  around,  serving  the  drinks,  and  in  the  adjoining 
room  cracked  the  billiard-balls,  and  some  one  of  the 
players,  whenever  he  hit  the  ball,  sang  out  in  a  merry 
tenor  voice  a  popular  song :  "Wherever  I  go,  or  stroll, 
I  see  only  Ju-li-a,  only  Ju-li-a." 

"Oh,  the  devil!"  muttered  Kostovsky,  pouring  out 

the  tenth  glass,  and  gloomily  draining  it.     He  was 

irritated  because  even  here  in  the  dramshop  "she"  was 

persecuting  him.    He  had  decided  to  "forget"  her  for 

14— VOL.  i 


304  "SKITALITZ" 

evermore :  he  hated  and  despised  her,  and  did  not  wish 
to  remember  her  at  all. 

The  dramshop  enveloped  him  in  its  sounds  and 
smells,  and  eased  his  suffering  with  its  well-known  col- 
oring of  something  intimate,  free,  something  he  had 
lived  through  in  the  past. 

But,  little  by  little,  his  thoughts  withdrew  from  the 
dramshop,  and  "she"  appeared  once  more,  and  would 
no  longer  leave  him. 

She  was  now  in  the  costume  of  a  "mermaid/'  with 
the  body  of  a  fish  covered  with  silver  scales,  radiant 
under  the  many  colored  rays  of  the  reflector,  seduc- 
tively beautiful.  She  lured  him  after  her  with  her 
enticing  smile,  and  swam  away  far,  far  into  the  bound- 
less sea.  And  the  man  in  love  with  a  mermaid  felt 
that  he  was  perishing,  that  he  would  never  more  re- 
turn to  his  former  carelessness,  power,  and  strength 
of  soul.  And  he  recollected  his  former  life  before  he 
knew  the  mermaid  and  her  kisses.  True,  he  had 
caroused  then,  but  that  was  not  drunkenness,  it  was 
dare-deviltry,  his  power  was  seeking  a  free  outlet.  His 
heart  was  athirst  for  dash  and  merriment.  So,  like 
the  legendary  fisherman,  he  had  found  in  his  net  a  mer- 
maid. He  lifted  her  in  his  arms,  kissed  and  caressed 
her,  and — good-by  to  carefree  life!  The  man  was 
ruined  by  the  mermaid! 

"Oh,  devil!"  Kostovsky  roared,  draining  his  glass, 
and  thinking  thereby  to  drive  off  the  troublesome 
thoughts;  but  "she"  continued  to  torture  him  piti- 
lessly, appearing  before  him  every  moment  in  another 
costume,  now  as  a  fairy,  a  shepherdess,  and  again  as 


THE  LOVE  OF  A  SCENE-PAINTER  305 

a  mermaid,  or  she  swam  close  to  him  in  a  wide  house- 
gown,  and  her  thick,  black  curls  fell  over  her  forehead 
and  upon  her  full,  pink  cheeks.  And  her  whole  figure 
was  as  if  flooded  by  radiant,  poetic  rays. 

"And  when  with  friends  I  drain  the  heady  cup,  I 
see  before  me  all  the  while  Julia,  Julia,"  came  from 
the  billiard-room  the  merry,  tenor  voice.  Gradually 
the  dramshop  filled  with  a  mist,  through  which  the 
lights  burned  very  low,  and  the  noise  of  the  revelers 
reached  but  indistinctly  and  seemed  far  off,  resem- 
bling faraway  sea-breakers.  The  dramshop  filled  with 
sea-waves,  which  rose  and  fell.  And  from  the  waves 
swam  out  a  mermaid  who  was  laughingly  luring  Ko- 
stovsky  to  her. 

For  a  moment  he  lifted  his  head,  and  again  saw 
before  him  the  bottle,  poured  out  another  glass,  and 
drained  it;  the  mist  became  denser,  rolled  before  his 
eyes.  But  he  still  saw,  rising  amidst  the  wine-vapors 
high  over  the  bottle,  her  poetic,  sweet  image. 

When  Kostovsky  was  at  last  found  again  after  a 
search  of  several  days  in  the  different  dramshops  of 
the  city,  and  brought  to  his  senses,  the  opera,  with  its 
"sea-bottom"  and  mermaids,  was  again  produced. 

Now  Kostovsky  once  more  looked  his  old  self: 
the  unkempt,  carelessly  dressed  scene-painter  was  even 
more  gloomy  than  before;  his  locks  bristled  and  his 
mustaches  stood  on  end  worse  than  ever. 

He  stood  gloomily  on  his  elevation  behind  the 
scenes,  lighting  up  the  mermaids  with  the  rays  from 
his  reflector.  His  soul  was  filled  with  cold  and  gloom 


306  THE  LOVE  OF  A  SCENE-PAINTER 

and  obduracy.  Now  he  himself  kept  aloof  from  every- 
body, hated  the  whole  troupe,  and  lived  alone. 

And  the  "mermaids"  swam  over  the  "sea-bottom." 

But  it  was  no  longer  the  former  radiant,  poetic  light 
which  shone  upon  them ;  the  light  which  the  decorator 
threw  upon  them  now  was  a  sad,  pale  light,  and  under 
its  rays  they  seemed  inanimate,  sickly,  and  half -dead. 

But  when  Julia  appeared — swimming  as  formerly 
lower  than  the  rest — sinister,  dark-blue  rays  came 
pouring  upon  her,  and  she  looked  more  like  a  fury 
than  a  mermaid.  Her  face  was  blue,  horrible,  with 
black  lips  and  black  cavities  instead  of  eyes,  and  the 
slippery  fish-body  was  as  if  covered  with  a  loathsome 
slime. 

A  mutter  of  disgust  ran  through  the  theatre. 

And  the  decorator  also  lit  up  with  the  same  light 
the  "sea-bottom"  with  all  its  monsters;  and  like  a 
symbol  of  nightmare  and  sadness  the  green-eyed  devil- 
fish came  out  of  the  darkness,  and  the  noxious  medusas 
began  to  move  around. 

The  blue  body  of  Julia  seemed  to  swim  in  this  loath- 
some mass,  and  at  last  blended  with  it  into  one  living, 
monstrous,  deformed  creature. 

The  scene-painter  slowly  turned  the  glasses  of  the 
reflector,  gazed  upon  the  work  of  the  light  he  had 
created,  and  it  seemed  to  him  that  he  had  destroyed 
forever  the  former  charm  of  the  woman — that  she 
whom  he  had  loved  had  never  been  beautiful;  and  it 
seemed  to  him  that  now  only  he  saw  her  in  her  real 
light,  and  that  she  only  became  divinely  beautiful  when 
lighted  by  the  bright  rays  of  his  love. 


VALIA 


BY   LEONID   ANDREIEV 


Leonid  Andreiev  is  a  talented  member  of  the 
youngest  school  of  Russian  literature.  He  was 
born  at  Oriol  in  1871.  He  studied  law  at  the 
universities  of  St.  Petersburg  and  Moscow  and 
graduated  in  1897.  He  wrote  some  stories 
while  still  a  student,  but  did  not  meet  with 
recognition  until  1898,  when  he  wholly  aban- 
doned his  unsuccessful  career  as  a  lawyer  and 
devoted  himself  to  literature. 

Andreiev,  like  some  of  the  other  young 
Russian  writers,  Gorki  included,  is  groping 
his  way — his  talent  has  not  yet  adopted  a  per- 
manent manner.  He  has  two  distinctly  different 
styles,  one  symbolic  and  elusive,  the  other  clear 
and  sane,  though  melancholy.  It  may  interest 
some  readers  to  compare  his  *  'Valia"  with 
Frapie's  story  in  the  volume  of  French  short 
stories  in  this  series. 


VALIA 

BY    LEONID    ANDREIEV 

VALIA  was  reading  a  huge,  very  huge  book, 
almost  half  as  large  as  himself,  with  very 
black  letters  and  pictures  occupying  the 
entire  page.  To  see  the  top  line  Valia  had  to  stretch 
out  his  neck,  lean  far  over  the  table,  kneeling  in  his 
chair,  and  putting  his  short  chubby  ringer  on  the  let- 
ters for  fear  they  would  be  lost  among  the  other  ones 
like  it,  in  which  case  it  was  a  difficult  task  to  find  them 
again.  Owing  to  these  circumstances,  unforeseen  by 
the  publishers,  the  reading  advanced  very  slowly,  not- 
withstanding the  breath-catching  interest  of  the  book. 

It  was  a  story  about  a  very  strong  boy  whose  name 
was  Prince  Bova,  and  who  could,  by  merely  grasping 
the  legs  or  arms  of  other  boys,  wrench  them  away 
from  the  body. 

But  Valia  was  suddenly  interrupted  in  his  reading; 
his  mother  entered  with  some  other  woman. 

"Here  he  is,"  said  his  mother,  her  eyes  red  with 
weeping.  The  tears  had  evidently  been  shed  very 
recently  as  she  was  still  crushing  a  white  lace  hand- 
kerchief in  her  hand. 

"Valichka,  darling!"  exclaimed  the  other  woman, 
and  putting  her  arms  about  his  head,  she  began  to 
kiss  his  face  and  eyes,  pressing  her  thin,  hard  lips  to 

Translated  by  Liitie  B.  Gorin.    Copyright,  1907,  by  P.  F.  Collier  &  Son. 

(309) 


310  LEONID    ANDREIEV 

them.  She  did  not  fondle  him  as  did  his  mother, 
whose  kisses  were  soft  and  melting;  this  one  seemed 
loath  to  let  go  of  him.  Valia  accepted  her  pricking 
caresses  with  a  frown  and  silence;  he  was  very  much 
displeased  at  being  interrupted,  and  he  did  not  at  all 
like  this  strange  woman,  tall,  with  bony,  long  fingers 
upon  which  there  was  not  even  one  ring.  And  she 
smelled  so  bad :  a  damp,  moldy  smell,  while  his  mother 
always  exhaled  a  fresh,  exquisite  perfume. 

At  last  the  woman  left  him  in  peace,  and  while  he 
was  wiping  his  lips  she  looked  him  over  with  that 
quick  sort  of  glance  which  seemed  to  photograph  one. 
His  short  nose  with  its  indication  of  a  future  little 
hump,  his  thick,  unchildish  brows  over  dark  eyes, 
and  the  general  appearance  of  stern  seriousness,  re- 
called some  one  to  her,  and  she  began  to  cry.  Even 
her  weeping  was  unlike  mama's:  the  face  remained 
immovable  while  the  tears  quickly  rolled  down  one 
after  the  other — before  one  had  time  to  fall  another 
was  already  chasing  after  it.  Her  tears  ceased  as 
suddenly  as  they  had  commenced,  and  she  asked: 
"Valichka,  do  you  know  me?"— "No." 

"I  called  to  see  you.    Twice  I  called  to  see  you." 

Perhaps  she  had  called  upon  him,  perhaps  she  had 
called  twice,  but  how  should  Valia  know  of  it?  With 
her  questions  she  only  hindered  him  from  reading. 

"I  am  your  mama,  Valia !"  said  the  woman. 

Valia  looked  around  in  astonishment  to  find  his 
mama,  but  she  was  no  longer  in  the  room. 

"Why,  can  there  be  two  mamas?"  he  asked.  "What 
nonsense  you  are  telling  me." 


VALIA  311 

The  woman  laughed,  but  this  laugh  did  not  please 
Valia;  it  was  evident  that  the  woman  did  not  wish 
to  laugh  at  all,  and  did  it  purposely  to  fool  him.  For 
some  moments  they  were  both  silent. 

"And  what  book  is  it  you  are  reading?" 

"About  Prince  Bova,"  Valia  informed  her  with  seri- 
ous self-esteem  and  an  evident  respect  for  the  big  book. 

"Ach,  it  must  be  very  interesting !  Tell  me,  please !" 
the  woman  asked  with  an  ingratiating  smile. 

And  once  more  something  unnatural  and  false 
sounded  in  this  voice,  which  tried  to  be  soft  and  round 
like  the  voice  of  his  mother,  but  remained  sharp  and 
prickly.  The  same  insincerity  appeared  also  in  all  the 
movements  of  the  woman;  she  turned  on  her  chair 
and  even  stretched  out  her  neck  with  a  manner  as 
if  preparing  for  a  long  and  attentive  listening;  and 
when  Valia  reluctantly  began  the  story,  she  immedi- 
ately retired  within  herself a  like  a  dark-lantern  on 
which  the  cover  is  suddenly  thrown.  Valia  felt  the 
offense  toward  himself  and  Prince  Bova,  but,  wishing 
to  be  polite,  he  quickly  finished  the  story  and  added: 
"That  is  all." 

"Well,  good-by,  my  dear,  my  dove!"  said  the 
strange  woman,  and  once  more  pressed  her  lips  to 
Valia's  face.  "I  shall  soon  call  again.  Will  you 
be  glad?" 

"Yes,  come  please,"  politely  replied  Valia,  and  to 
get  rid  of  her  more  quickly  he  added:  "I  will  be 
very  glad." 

The  visitor  left  him,  but  hardly  had  Valia  found 
in  the  book  again  the  word  at  which  he  had  been  in- 


312  LEONID   ANDREIEV 

terrupted,  when  mama  entered,  looked  at  him,  and 
she  also  began  to  weep.  He  could  easily  understand 
why  the  other  woman  should  have  wept;  she  must 
have  been  sorry  that  she  was  so  unpleasant  and  tire- 
some— but  why  should  his  mama  weep? 

"Listen,  mama,"  he  said  musingly,  "how  that 
woman  bored  me!  She  says  that  she  is  my  mama. 
Why,  could  there  be  two  mamas  to  one  boy?" 

"No,  baby,  there  could  not ;  but  she  speaks  the  truth ; 
she  is  your  mother." 

"And  what  are  yoa,  then?" 

"I  am  your  auntie." 

This  was  a  very  unexpected  discovery,  but  Valia 
received  it  with  unshakable  indifference;  auntie,  well, 
let  it  be  auntie — was  it  not  just  the  same?  A 
word  did  not,  as  yet,  have  the  same  meaning  for  him 
as  it  would  for  a  grown  person.  But  his  former 
mother  did  not  understand  it,  and  began  to  explain 
why  it  had  so  happened  that  she  had  been  a  mother 
and  had  become  an  aunt.  Once,  very  long  ago,  when 
Valia  was  very,  very  little — 

"How  little?  So?"  Valia  raised  his  hand  about 
a  quarter  of  a  yard  from  the  table.  "Like  Kiska?" 
Valia  exclaimed,  joyfully  surprised,  with  mouth  half 
opened  and  brow  lifted.  He  spoke  of  his  white  kitten 
that  had  been  presented  to  him. 

"Yes." 

Valia  broke  into  a  happy  laugh,  but  immediately  re- 
sumed his  usual  earnestness,  and  with  the  condescen- 
sion of  a  grown  person  recalling  the  mistakes  of  his 
youth,  he  remarked:  "How  funny  I  must  have  been!" 


VALIA  313 

When  he  was  so  very  little  and  funny,  like  Kiska, 
he  had  been  brought  by  that  woman  and  given  away 
forever,  also  like  Kiska.  And  now,  when  he  had 
become  so  big  and  clever,  the  woman  wanted  him. 

"Do  you  wish  to  go  to  her?"  asked  his  former 
mother  and  reddened  with  joy  when  Valia  resolutely 
and  sternly  said:  "No,  she  does  not  please  me!"  and 
once  more  took  up  his  book. 

Valia  considered  the  affair  closed,  but  he  was  mis- 
taken. This  strange  woman,  with  a  face  as  devoid 
of  life  as  if  all  the  blood  had  been  drained  out  of  it, 
who  had  appeared  from  no  one  knew  where,  and 
vanished  without  leaving  a  trace,  seemed  to  have  set 
the  whole  house  in  turmoil  and  filled  it  with  a  dull 
alarm.  Mama-auntie  often  cried  and  repeatedly 
asked  Valia  if  he  wished  to  leave  her;  uncle-papa 
grumbled,  patted  his  bald  pate  so  that  the  sparse,  gray 
hair  on  it  stood  up,  and  when  auntie-mama  was  absent 
from  the  room  he  also  asked  Valia  if  he  would  like 
to  go  to  that  woman.  Once,  in  the  evening,  when 
tValia  was  already  in  his  little  bed  but  was  not  yet  sleep- 
ing, he  heard  his  uncle  and  auntie  speaking  of  him  and 
the  woman.  The  uncle  spoke  in  an  angry  basso  at 
which  the  crystal  pendants  of  the  chandelier  gently 
trembled  and  sparkled  with  bluish  and  reddish  lights. 

"You  speak  nonsense,  Nastasia  Philippovna.  We 
have  no  right  to  give  the  child  away." 

"She  loves  him,  Grisha." 

"And  we !  Do  we  not  love  him  ?  You  are  arguing 
very  strangely,  Nastasia  Philippovna.  It  seems  as 
if  you  would  be  glad  to  get  rid  of  the  child — " 


314  LEONID    ANDREIEV 

"Are  you  not  ashamed  of  yourself  ?" 

"Well,  well,  how  quick  you  are  to  take  offense. 
Just  consider  this  matter  cold-bloodedly  and  reason- 
ably. Some  frivolous  thing  or  other  gives  birth  to 
children,  light-heartedly  disposes  of  them  by  placing 
them  on  your  threshold,  and  afterward  says:  'Kindly 
give  me  my  child,  because,  on  account  of  my  lover 
having  abandoned  me,  I  feel  lonesome.  For  theatres 
and  concerts  I  have  no  money,  so  give  me  the  child 
to  serve  as  a  toy  to  play  with/  No,  madam,  be 
easy,  we  shall  see  who  wins  in  this  case!" 

"You  are  unjust  to  her,  Grisha.  You  know  well 
how  ill  and  lonely  she  is — " 

"You,  Nastasia  Philippovna,  can  make  even  a  saint 
lose  patience,  by  God!  And  the  child  you  seem  to 
have  forgotten?  For  you  is  it  wholly  immaterial 
whether  he  is  brought  up  an  honest  man  or  a  scoun- 
drel? And  I  could  bet  my  head  that  he  would  be 
brought  up  by  her  a  scoundrel,  rascal,  and — scoundrel." 

"Grisha!" 

"I  ask  you,  for  God's  sake,  not  to  irritate  me! 
And  where  did  you  get  this  devilish  habit  of  contra- 
dicting? 'She  is  so  lonely.'  And  are  we  not  lonely? 
The  heartless  woman  that  you  are,  Nastasia  Philip- 
povna !  And  why  the  devil  did  I  marry  you !" 

The  heartless  woman  broke  into  tears,  and  her 
husband  immediately  begged  her  pardon,  declaring 
that  only  a  born  fool  could  pay  any  attention  to  the 
words  of  such  an  old  ass  as  he  was.  Gradually  she 
became  calmer  and  asked :  "What  does  Talonsky  say  ?" 

"And  what  makes  you  think  that  he  is  such  a  clever 


VALIA  316 

fellow  ?"  Gregory  Aristarchovich  again  flew  into  a  pas- 
sion. "He  says  that  everything  depends  on  how  the 
court  will  look  at  it. ...  Something  new,  is  it  not,  as  if 
we  did  not  know  without  his  telling  that  everything 
depends  on  how  the  court  will  look  at  it!  Of  course  it 
matters  little  to  him — what  does  he  care? — he  will 
have  his  bark  and  then  safely  go  his  way.  If  I  had 
my  way,  it  would  go  ill  with  all  these  empty  talkers — " 

But  here  Nastasia  Philippovna  shut  the  dining- 
room,  door  and  Valia  did  not  hear  the  end  of  the  con- 
versation. But  he  lay  for  a  long  time  with  open  eyes, 
trying  to  understand  what  sort  of  woman  it  was  who 
wished  to  take  him  away  from  his  home  and  ruin  him. 

On  the  next  day  he  waited  from  early  morning 
expecting  his  auntie  to  ask  him  if  he  wished  to  go  to 
his  mother;  but  auntie  did  not  ask.  Neither  did  his 
uncle.  Instead  of  this,  they  both  gazed  at  Valia  as 
if  he  were  dangerously  ill  and  would  soon  die;  they 
caressed  him  and  brought  him  large  books  with  colored 
pictures.  The  woman  did  not  call  any  more,  but  it 
seemed  to  Valia  that  she  must  be  lurking  outside  the 
door  watching  for  him,  and  that  as  soon  as  he  would 
pass  the  threshold  she  would  seize  him  and  carry 
him  out  into  a  black  and  dismal  distance  where  cruel 
monsters  were  wriggling  and  breathing  fire. 

In  the  evenings  while  his  uncle  Gregory  Aris- 
tarchovich was  occupied  in  his  study  and  Nastasia 
Philippovna  was  knitting  something,  or  playing  a 
game  of  solitaire,  Valia  read  his  books,  in  which  the 
lines  would  grow  gradually  thicker  and  the  letters 
smaller.  Everything  in  the  room  was  quiet,  so  quiet 


816  LEONID   ANDREIEV 

that  the  only  thing  to  be  heard  was  the  rustling  of  the 
pages  he  turned,  and  occasionally  the  uncle's  loud 
cough  from  the  study,  or  the  striking  of  the  abacus 
counters.  The  lamp,  with  its  blue  shade,  threw  a 
bright  light  on  the  blue  plush  table-cover,  but  the 
corners  of  the  room  were  full  of  a  quiet,  mysterious 
gloom.  There  stood  large  plants  with  curious  leaves 
and  roots  crawling  out  upon  the  surface  and  looking 
very  much  like  fighting  serpents,  and  it  seemed  as  if 
something  large  and  dark  was  moving  amidst  them. 
Valia  read,  and  before  his  wide-open  eyes  passed  ter- 
rible, beautiful  and  sad  images  which  awakened  in 
him  pity  and  love,  but  more  often  fear.  Valia  was 
sorry  for  the  poor  water-nymph  who  so  dearly  loved 
the  handsome  prince  that  for  him  she  had  given  up 
her  sisters  and  the  deep,  peaceful  ocean;  and  the 
prince  knew  nothing  of  this  love,  because  the  poor 
water-nymph  was  dumb,  and  so  he  married  a  gay 
princess;  and  while  great  festivities  in  honor  of  the 
wedding  were  in  full  swing  on  board  the  ship,  and 
music  was  playing  and  all  were  enjoying  themselves, 
the  poor  water-nymph  threw  herself  into  the  dark 
waves  to  die.  Poor,  sweet  little  water-nymph,  so  quiet 
and  sad,  and  modest !  But  often  terrible,  cruel,  human 
monsters  appeared  before  Valia.  In  the  dark  nights 
they  flew  somewhere  on  their  prickly  wings,  and  the 
air  whistled  over  their  heads,  and  their  eyes  burned 
like  red-hot  coals.  And  afterward,  they  were  sur- 
rounded by  other  monsters  like  themselves  while  a 
mysterious  and  terrible  something  was  happening 
there.  Laughter  as  sharp  as  a  knife,  long  and  pitiful 


VALIA  317 

wailing;  strange  weird  dances  in  the  purplish  light 
of  torches,  their  slanty,  fiery  tongues  wrapped  in  the 
red  clouds  of  smoke;  and  dead  men  with  long,  black 
beards —  All  this  was  the  manifestation  of  a  single 
enigmatic  and  cruel  power,  wishing  to  destroy  man. 
Angry  and  mysterious  spectres  rilled  the  air,  hid 
among  the  plants,  whispered  something,  and  pointed 
their  bony  fingers  at  Valia;  they  gazed  at  him  from 
behind  the  door  of  the  adjoining  unlit  room,  giggled 
and  waited  till  he  would  go  to  bed,  when  they  would 
silently  dart  around  over  his  head;  they  peeped  at 
him  from  out  of  the  garden  through  the  large,  dark 
windows,  and  wailed  sorrowfully  with  the  wind. 

In  and  out  among  all  this  vicious  and  terrible  throng 
appeared  the  image  of  that  woman  who  had  come 
for  Valia.  Many  people  came  and  went  in  the  house 
of  Gregory  Aristarchovich,  and  Valia  did  not  remem- 
ber their  faces,  but  this  face  lived  in  his  memory.  It 
was  such  an  elongated,  thin,  yellow  face,  and  smiled 
with  a  sly,  dissembling  smile,  from  which  two  deep 
lines  appeared  at  the  two  corners  of  the  mouth.  If 
this  woman  took  Valia  he  would  die. 

"Listen,"  Valia  once  said  to  his  aunt,  tearing  him- 
self away  from  his  book  for  a  moment.  "Listen,"  he 
repeated  with  his  usual  earnestness,  and  with  a  glance 
that  gazed  straight  into  the  eyes  of  the  person  with 
whom  he  spoke :  "I  shall  call  you  mama,  not  auntie. 
You  talk  nonsense  when  you  say  that  the  woman — is 
mama.  You  are  mama,,  not  she." 

"Why?"  asked  Nastasia  Philippovna,  blushing  like 
a  young  girl  who  had  just  received  a  compliment.  But 


318  LEONID  ANDREIEV 

along  with  her  joy  there  could  also  be  heard  in  her 
voice  the  sound  of  fear  for  Valia.  He  had  become  so 
strange  of  late,  and  timid;  feared  to  sleep  alone,  as 
he  used  to  do,  raved  in  his  sleep  and  cried. 

"But,  Valichka,  it  is  true,  she  is  your  mother." 

"I  really  wonder  where  you  get  this  habit  of  contra- 
dicting!" Valia  said  after  some  musing,  imitating  the 
tone  of  Gregory  Aristarchovich. 

Nastasia  Philippovna  laughed,  but  while  preparing 
for  bed  that  night  she  spoke  for  a  considerable  time 
with  her  husband,  who  boomed  like  a  Turkish  drum, 
abused  the  empty  talkers,  and  frivolous,  hair-brained 
women,  and  afterward  went  with  his  wife  to  see  Valia. 

They  gazed  long  and  silently  into  the  face  of  the 
sleeping  child.  The  flame  of  the  candle  swayed  in 
the  trembling  hand  of  Gregory  Aristarchovich  and 
lent  a  fantastic,  death-like  coloring  to  the  face  01 
the  boy,  which  was  as  white  as  the  pillows  on 
which  it  rested.  It  seemed  as  if  a  pair  of  stern,  black 
eyes  looked  at  them  from  the  dark  hollows,  demand- 
ing a  reply  and  threatening  them  with  misfortune  and 
unknown  sorrow,  and  the  lips  twitched  into  a  strange, 
ironic  smile  as  if  upon  his  helpless  child-head  lay  a 
vague  reflection  of  those  cruel  and  mysterious  spectre 
monsters  that  silently  hovered  over  it. 

"Valia!"  whispered  the  frightened  Nastasia.  The 
boy  sighed  deeply  but  did  not  move,  as  if  enchained 
in  the  sleep  of  death. 

"Valia!  Valia!"  the  deep,  trembling  voice  of  her 
husband  was  added  to  that  of  Nastasia  Philippovna. 

Valia  opened  his  eyes,  shaded  by  thick  eyelashes; 


VALIA  319 

the  light  of  the  candle  made  him  wink,  and  he  sprang 
to  his  knees,  pale  and  frightened.  His  uncovered, 
thin  little  arms,  like  a  pearl  necklace  encircled  his 
auntie's  full,  rosy  neck,  and  hiding  his  little  head  upon 
her  breast  and  screwing  up  his  eyes  tight  as  if  fearing 
that  they  would  open  of  themselves,  he  whispered :  "I 
am  afraid,  mama,  I  am  afraid !  Do  not  go !" 

That  was  a  bad  night  for  the  whole  household ;  when 
Valia  at  last  fell  asleep,  Gregory  Aristarchovich  got 
an  attack  of  asthma.  He  choked,  and  his  full,  white 
breast  rose  and  fell  spasmodically  under  the  ice  com- 
presses. Toward  morning  he  grew  more  tranquil, 
and  the  worn  Nastasia  fell  asleep  with  the  thought 
that  her  husband  would  not  survive  the  loss  of  the 
child. 

After  a  family  council  at  which  it  was  decided  that 
Valia  ought  to  read  less  and  to  see  more  of  children  of 
his  own  age,  little  girls  and  boys  were  brought  to 
the  house  to  play  with  him.  But  Valia  from  the  first 
conceived  a  dislike  for  these  foolish  children  who, 
in  his  eyes,  were  too  noisy,  loud  and  indecorous.  They 
pulled  flowers,  tore  books,  jumped  over  chairs,  and 
fought  like  little  monkeys ;  and  he,  serious  and  thought- 
ful, looked  on  at  their  pranks  with  amazement  and  dis- 
pleasure, and,  going  up  to  Nastasia  Philippovna,  said : 
"They  tire  me !  I  would  rather  sit  by  you." 

And  in  the  evenings  he  once  more  took  up  his  book, 
and  when  Gregory  Aristarchovich,  grumbling  at  all 
the  deviltry  the  child  read  about,  and  by  which  he 
was  losing  his  senses,  gently  tried  to  take  the  book 
from  Valia's  hands,  the  child  silently  and  irresolutely 


320  LEONID  ANDREIEV 

pressed  it  to  himself.  And  the  improvised  pedagogue 
beat  a  confused  retreat  and  angrily  scolded  his  wife: 

"Is  this  what  you  call  bringing  up!  No,  Nastasia 
Philippovna,  I  see  you  are  more  fit  to  take  care  of 
kittens  than  to  bring  up  children.  The  boy  is  so  spoiled 
that  one  can  not  even  take  a  book  away  from  him.'* 

One  morning  while  Valia  was  sitting  at  breakfast 
with  Nastasia  Philippovna,  Gregory  Aristarchovich 
suddenly  came  rushing  into  the  dining-room.  His  hat 
was  tilted  on  the  back  of  his  head,  his  face  was 
covered  with  perspiration;  while  still  at  the  other  side 
of  the  door  he  shouted  joyfully  into  the  room : 

"Refused!    The  court  has  refused!" 

The  diamond  earrings  in  Nastasia  Philippovna's  ears 
began  to  sparkle,  and  the  little  knife  she  held  in  her 
hand  dropped  to  the  plate  with  a  clatter. 

"Is  it  true?"  she  asked,  breathlessly. 

Gregory  Aristarchovich  made  a  serious  face,  just 
to  show  that  he  had  spoken  the  truth,  but  immediately 
forgetting  his  intention,  his  face  became  covered  with 
a  whole  network  of  merry  wrinkles.  Then  once  more 
remembering  that  he  lacked  that  earnestness  of  de- 
meanor with  which  important  news  is  usually  im- 
parted, he  frowned,  pushed  a  chair  up  to  the  table, 
placed  his  hat  upon  it,  forgot  that  it  was  his  hat,  and 
thinking  the  chair  to  be  already  occupied  by  some  one, 
threw  a  stern  look  at  Nastasia  Philippovna,  then  on 
Valia,  winked  his  eye  at  Valia ;  and  only  after  all  these 
solemn  preliminaries  did  he  declare : 

"I  always  said  that  Talonsky  was  a  devilish  clever 
fellow;  can't  fool  him  easily,  Nastasia  Philippovna." 


VALIA  321 

"So  it  is  true?" 

"You  are  always  ready  with  your  eternal  doubts.  I 
said  the  case  of  Mme.  Akimova  is  dismissed.  Clever, 
is  it  not,  little  brother  ?"  he  turned  to  Valia  and  added 
in  a  stern,  official  tone:  "And  that  said  Akimova  is 
to  pay  the  costs." 

"That  woman  will  not  take  me,  then?" 

"I  guess  she  won't,  brother  mine !  Ach,  I  have  en- 
tirely forgotten,  I  brought  you  some  books!" 

Gregory  Aristarchovich  rushed  into  the  corridor, 
but  halted  on  hearing  Nastasia  Philippovna's  scream. 
Valia  had  fallen  back  on  his  chair  in  a  faint. 

A  happy  time  began  for  the  family.  It  was  as  if 
some  one  who  had  lain  dangerously  ill  in  the  house 
had  suddenly  recovered  and  all  began  to  breathe  more 
easily  and  freely.  Valia  lost  his  fear  of  the  terrible 
monsters  and  no  longer  suffered  from  nightmares. 
When  the  little  monkeys,  as  he  called  the  children, 
came  to  see  him  again,  he  was  the  most  inventive  of 
the  lot.  But  even  into  the  most  fantastic  plays  he  in- 
troduced his  habitual  earnestness  and  staidness,  and 
when  they  played  Indians,  he  found  it  indispensable 
to  divest  himself  of  almost  all  his  clothing  and  cover 
his  body  with  red  paint. 

In  view  of  the  businesslike  manner  in  which  these 
games  were  conducted,  Gregory  Aristarchovich  now 
found  it  possible  to  participate  in  them,  as  far  as  his 
abilities  allowed.  In  the  role  of  a  bear  he  did  not 
appear  to  great  advantage,  but  he  had  a  great  and  well 
deserved  success  in  his  role  of  elephant.  And  when 
Valia,  silent  and  earnest  as  a  true  son  of  the  Goddess 


322  LEONID   ANDREIEV 

Cali,  sat  upon  his  father's  shoulders  and  gently  tapped 
upon  his  rosy  bald  pate  with  a  tiny  toy  hammer,  he 
really  reminded  one  of  a  little  Eastern  prince  who  de- 
spotically reigns  over  people  and  animals. 

The  lawyer  Talonsky  tried  to  convey  a  hint  to  Greg- 
ory Aristarchovich  that  all  was  not  safe  yet,  but  the 
former  could  not  comprehend  how  three  judges  could 
reverse  the  decision  of  three  other  judges,  when  the 
laws  are  the  same  here  and  everywhere.  And  when 
the  lawyer  insisted,  Gregory  Aristarchovich  grew 
angry,  and  to  prove  that  there  was  nothing  to  be  feared 
from  the  higher  court,  he  brought  forward  that  same 
Talonsky  on  whom  he  now  implicitly  relied : 

"Why,  are  you  not  going  to  be  present  when  the 
case  is  brought  before  the  court?  Well,  then  what  is 
there  to  be  talked  about.  I  wish  you,  Nastasia  Philip- 
povna,  would  make  him  ashamed  of  himself." 

Talonsky  smiled,  and  Nastasia  Philippovna  gently 
chided  him  for  his  purposeless  doubts.  They  also 
spoke  of  the  woman  who  had  caused  all  the  trouble, 
but  now  that  she  could  menace  them  no  more,  and  the 
court  had  decided  that  she  must  bear  all  the  costs  of 
the  trial,  they  often  dubbed  her  "poor  woman." 

Since  the  day  Valia  had  heard  that  the  woman  had 
no  longer  any  power  to  take  him,  she  had  lost  in  his 
eyes  the  halo  of  mysterious  fear,  which  enveloped  her 
like  a  mist  and  distorted  the  features  of  her  thin 
face,  and  Valia  began  to  think  of  her  as  he  did  of  all 
other  people.  He  now  repeatedly  heard  that  she  was 
unhappy  and  could  not  understand  why;  but  this  pale 
bloodless  face  grew  more  simple,  natural  and  near 


VALIA  323 

to  him,  the  "poor  woman,"  as  they  called  her,  began 
to  interest  him,  and  recalling  other  poor  women  of 
whom  he  had  read,  he  felt  a  growing  pity  and  a 
timid  tenderness  for  her. 

He  imagined  that  she  must  sit  alone  in  some  dark 
room,  fearing  something  and  weeping,  always  weep- 
ing, as  she  had  wept  then  when  she  had  come  to  see 
him.  And  he  felt  sorry  that  he  had  not  told  her  the 
story  of  Prince  Bova  better  than  he  had  at  the  time. 

It  appeared  that  three  judges  could,  after  all,  dis- 
agree with  the  decision  of  three  other  judges.  The 
higher  court  had  reversed  the  decision  of  the  district 
court,  the  child  was  adjudged  to  his  real  mother.  And 
the  appeal  was  not  considered  by  the  senate. 

When  the  woman  came  to  take  Valia  away  with  her, 
Gregory  Aristarchovich  was  not  at  home,  he  was  at 
Talonsky's  house  and  was  lying  in  Talonsky's  bed- 
room, and  only  the  bald,  rosy  pate  was  visible  above 
the  sea  of  snow-white  pillows. 

Nastasia  Philippovna  did  not  leave  her  room,  and 
the  maid  led  Valia  forth  from  it  already  dressed  for 
the  road.  He  wore  a  fur  coat  and  tall  overshoes  in 
which  he  moved  his  feet  with  difficulty.  From  under 
his  fur  cap  looked  out  a  pale  little  face  with  a  frank 
and  serious  expression  in  the  dark  eyes.  Under  his 
arm  Valia  carried  a  book  in  which  was  the  story  of 
a  poor  water-nymph. 

The  tall,  gaunt  woman  pressed  the  boy  to  her 
shabby  coat  and  sobbed  out:  "How  you  have  grown, 
Valichka!  You  are  unrecognizable,"  she  said,  trying 


824  LEONID    ANDREIEV 

to  joke,  but  Valia  adjusted  his  cap  and,  contrary  to 
habit,  did  not  look  into  the  eyes  of  the  one  who  from 
this  day  on  was  to  be  his  mother,  but  into  her  mouth. 
It  was  large,  but  with  beautiful,  small  teeth;  the  two 
wrinkles  on  the  corners  of  the  mouth  were  still  on  the 
same  place  where  Valia  had  seen  them  first,  only  now 
they  were  deeper. 

"You  are  not  angry  with  me  ?"  asked  mama ;  but  Valia, 
not  replying  to  her  question,  said :  "Let  us  be  gone." 

"Valichka!"  came  a  pitiful  scream  from  Nastasia 
Philippovna's  room,  and  she  appeared  on  the  thres- 
hold with  eyes  swollen  from  weeping,  and  clasping 
her  hands  she  rushed  toward  the  child,  sank  on  her 
knees,  and  put  her  head  on  his  shoulder.  She  did  not 
utter  a  sound,  only  the  diamonds  in  her  ears  trembled. 

"Come,  Valia,"  sternly  said  the  tall  woman,  taking 
his  hand.  "We  must  not  remain  any  longer  among 
people  who  have  subjected  your  mother  to  such  torture 
— such  torture !" 

Her  dry  voice  was  full  of  hatred  and  she  longed  to 
strike  the  kneeling  woman  with  her  foot. 

"Ugh!  heartless  wretches!  You  would  be  glad  to 
take  even  my  only  child  from  me!"  she  wrathfully 
whispered,  and  pulled  Valia  away  by  his  hand. 
"Come !  Don't  be  like  your  father,  who  abandoned  me." 

"Ta-ke  ca-re  of  him,"  Nastasia  called  after  them. 

The  hired  sleigh  which  stood  waiting  for  them  flew 
softly  and  lightly  over  the  snow  and  noiselessly  carried 
Valia  away  from  the  quiet  house  with  its  wonderful 
plants  and  flowers,  its  mysterious  fairy-tale  world, 
immeasurable  and  deep  as  the  sea,  with  its  windows 


YALTA  325 

gently  screened  by  the  boughs  of  the  tall  trees  of  the 
garden.  Soon  the  house  was  lost  in  the  mass  of  other 
houses,  as  similar  to  each  other  as  the  letters  in  Valia's 
book,  and  vanished  forever  from  Valia. 

It  seemed  to  him  as  if  they  were  swimming  in  a 
river,  the  banks  of  which  were  constituted  of  rows  of 
lanterns  as  close  to  each  other  as  beads  on  a  string,  but 
when  they  approached  nearer,  the  beads  were  scat- 
tered, forming  large,  dark  spaces  and  merging  behind 
into  just  such  a  line  of  light.  And  then  Valia  thought 
that  they  were  standing  motionless  on  the  very  same 
spot ;  and  everything  began  to  be  like  a  fairy  tale — he 
himself  and  the  tall  woman  who  was  pressing  him  to 
her  with  her  bony  hand,  and  everything  around  him. 

The  hand  in  which  he  carried  his  book  was  getting 
stiff  with  cold.,  but  he  would  not  ask  his  mother  to 
take  the  book  from  him. 

The  small  room  into  which  Valia's  mother  had 
taken  him  was  untidy  and  hot;  in  a  corner  near  the 
large  bed  stood  a  little  curtained  bed  such  as  Valia 
had  not  slept  in  for  a  long,  long  time. 

"You  are  frozen!  Well,  wait,  we  shall  soon  have 
some  tea !  Well,  now  you  are  with  your  mama.  Are 
you  glad?"  his  mother  asked  with  the  hard,  unpleasant 
look  of  one  who  has  been  forced  to  smile  beneath  blows 
all  her  life  long. 

"No/'  Valia  replied  shyly,  frightened  at  his  own 
frankness. 

"No?  And  I  had  bought  some  toys  for  you.  Just 
look,  there  they  are  on  the  window. 

Valia  approached  the  window  and  examined  the 


326  YALTA 

toys.  They  were  wretched  paper  horses  with  straight, 
thick  legs,  Punch  with  a  red  cap  on,  with  an  idiot- 
ically grinning  face  and  a  large  nose,  and  little  tin 
soldiers  with  one  foot  raised  in  the  air. 

Valia  had  long  ago  given  up  playing  with  toys  and 
did  not  like  them,  but  from  politeness  he  did  not  show 
it  to  his  mother.  "Yes,  they  are  nice  toys,"  he  said. 

She  noticed  the  glance  he  threw  at  the  window,  and 
said  with  that  unpleasant,  ingratiating  smile: 

"I  did  not  know  what  you  liked,  darling,  and  I 
bought  them  for  you  a  long  time  ago." 

Valia  was  silent,  not  knowing  what  to  reply. 

"You  must  know  that  I  am  all  alone,  Valia,  all  alone 
in  the  wide  world ;  I  have  no  one  whose  advice  I  could 
ask ;  I  thought  they  would  please  you."  Valia  was  silent. 

Suddenly  the  muscles  of  the  woman's  face  relaxed 
and  the  tears  began  to  drop  from  her  eyes,  quickly, 
quickly,  one  after  the  other;  and  she  threw  herself  on 
the  bed  which  gave  a  pitiful  squeak  under  the  weight 
of  her  body,  and  with  one  hand  pressed  to  her  breast, 
the  other  to  her  temples,  she  looked  vacantly  through 
the  wall  with  her  pale,  faded  eyes,  and  whispered: 

"He  was  not  pleased !    Not  pleased ! — " 

Valia  promptly  approached  the  bed,  put  his  little 
hand,  still  red  with  the  cold,  on  the  large  head  of  his 
mother,  and  spoke  with  the  same  serious  staidness 
which  distinguished  this  boy's  speech: 

"Do  not  cry,  mama.  I  will  love  you  very  much.  I 
do  not  care  to  play  with  toys,  but  I  will  love  you  ever 
so  much.  If  you  wish,  I  will  read  to  you  the  story 
of  the  poor  water-nymph." 


14  DAY  USE 

RETURN  TO  DESK  FROM  WHICH  BORROWED 

LOAN  DEPT. 

This  book  is  due  on  the  1*<  d«e  ^mped  below,  or 

on  the  date  to  which  renewed. 
Renewed  books  are  subject  to  immediate 


LD  2lA-60m-3,'65 
(F2336slO)476B 


General  Library    . 
University  of  California 
Berkeley 


YC  61682 


